Sweet Compulsion

by Woolf, Victoria

  His glance lingered on her heart-shaped face, a curious hardness coming into his eyes. 'Do you know anything about Saxtons, Miss Campion ?'

  `I've been told enough,' she shrugged. 'A sort of commercial octopus which has tentacles everywhere.' Her eyes mocked him. 'I'm sure you fit in very well there.'

  Randal found himself becoming angry, something he rarely did. Andrew had said this girl was quick, he thought. He had come down here with the full intention of using the charm and sex appeal he had often used before in similar circumstances, and to hear himself bluntly described as a commercial octopus somehow got under his skin.

  `Seduction was not, and is not, on my agenda, Miss . Campion,' he said grimly.

  `Good lord, a pompous octopus,' she grinned, beginning to walk away along the street.

  Irritably he found himself falling in beside her, although it was clear to him that his chances were diminishing minute by minute.

  `I fail to see why you can't have dinner with me,' he said, furious with himself for his inept handling of the

  situation. 'Or are you afraid you may find yourself giving way, Miss Campion?'

  She halted, facing him indignantly, green sparks lashing out at him from the wide eyes. 'I'm not afraid of anything of the sort,' she said, her small chin defiant. 'Just because Sharon fell for you like a ton of bricks it doesn't make you God's gift to women, let me tell you . .

  `Then there's no reason why you shouldn't have dinner with me,' he said softly.

  She stared, her mouth parted in chagrin.

  `I'll pick you up at seven at the house,' he said swiftly, seeing he had caught her at a loss for words temporarily. Before Marcy could summon up a stinging refusal he had strode away. She saw him clearly for a second, tall, handsome, marked with that curious distinction. Then he had gone, and she stamped her foot in sudden burning irritation.

  When she got back to the house in Paradise Street she found Sim stalking about with a few earnest souls who beamed at her, greeting her eagerly. 'The local conservation lot,' Sim hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  She spent an hour with them, walking around the house, listening to their cries of delight and excitement over what they saw. One of them had a vast leather tome in which he showed her etchings of similar buildings of the same period, sighing over them.

  `This house could be a focal point for local community feeling,' he mused.

  Marcy glanced out of one of the high windows at

  the children at their tireless games in the garden, and thought how much more such freedom was needed. The garden, more than the house, seemed to be what she was fighting for, despite her personal reverence for her family past. Coming from the wild beauty of Cornwall to this unutterably dreary place she had been struck deeply by the lack of space in which children could be free. Formal, tidy municipal parks were intended for activities which were alien to children. She herself as a child had much preferred the rough-hewn caves and rocky pools of the foreshore to the neatness of her own garden.

  When the rest of the group had gone, Sim lingered, staring out at the children with wistful eyes.

  `Why don't you come to dinner with me and Lisa tonight, Marcy ?' he asked at last, turning to her, as if aroused from a sad reverie.

  `I've got a date, thank you,' she smiled, inwardly amused by her own phrasing, since her appointment with Mr Randal was not quite so easily described.

  Sim surveyed her in a new way. 'I didn't know you had a boy-friend, Marcy?'

  She grinned impishly at him. 'That's not quite how I Would describe him,' she said.

  He cocked a shrewd eyebrow. 'You aren't moving out of your class, I hope? Little girl like you, getting all this publicity, might attract the odd nut.'

  `That wouldn't describe him, either,' she said, her mouth lilting into a smile.

  `You're very secretive,' said Sim, eyeing her curiously. 'Do I know him?' His eyes widened. 'It isn't Russell, is it?'

  `Russell ?' She stared at him, then shook her head. `No, of course not.'

  `Why of course not ?' Sim asked. 'Russell's a nice boy.'

  `Your mother wouldn't approve,' she said lightly. `She has Michelle lined up for Russell when he finally stops ducking.'

  Sim grimaced. 'Russell doesn't seem to know that.' Marcy smiled gently. 'He knows. He just doesn't want to turn in his running shoes yet.'

  Sim laughed, running a hand through his hair. `You've become one of the family very quickly, Marcy, you know that? My mother likes you.'

  `So long as I never become one of the family,' she said in the same gentle tone. 'Your mother likes to make the decisions, and she's already made up Russell's mind for him.'

  `She's not always omniscient,' Sim said in sudden dryness. 'She kicks herself every day for letting me marry Lisa.'

  Marcy glanced at him softly. 'If I were you, Sim, I'd take Lisa up West tonight and buy her a really extravagant dinner.'

  He stared at her. 'Why the hell should I do that ?' Marcy looked at him through her lashes. 'As a sign of penitence,' she said softly.

  His face expressed bafflement. 'Penitence for what ? I haven't done anything!'

  `You've considered it,' she said, her mouth denting.

  A flush came into his face. He looked at her oddly.

  `What,' he asked carefully, 'are you talking about ?' `I should tell Lisa nothing about it,' Marcy mur-

  mured. 'Buy her a dozen red roses, a bottle of French perfume, anything . . . take her to dinner somewhere really stunning, and look as penitent as hell !'

  Sim drew a long, shaky breath. 'And what will that achieve ?'

  `She'll wonder what you've been up to,' said Marcy, opening her eyes wide.

  `You can bet on that,' he said grimly.

  `She'll possibly even ask you straight out.' `And what do I say then?'

  Marcy's smile was teasing. 'Be reticent,' she murmured. 'Look sheepish.'

  `Oh, yeah ?' drawled Sim. 'And when she scratches my eyes -out ?'

  Marcy laughed. 'Before she gets that mad, tell her you love her deeply, but you feel you're getting old and you need to have a child.'

  Sim crimsoned. He looked away.

  `You might hint that there's another woman somewhere who might be prepared to look at things your way . . . but don't go too far along that road, Sim, or she might get really mad. Just let her think you were tempted for a second or two, nothing more.'

  `And if I end up in the divorce courts, you'll pay the bill ?' he enquired.

  `That would never happen in a million years,' she said. 'Lisa has you on a piece of very short string, Sim. All she needs to think is that you've been thinking of straying, and she'll yank you in so fast your feet won't touch the ground.'

  Sim gave a grunt of laughter. 'Where do you pick up this language ?'

  Marcy dimpled. 'I'm a woman. I know what I'd do in Lisa's position.'

  Sim glanced at her oddly. 'What made you think I was getting a wandering eye, Marcy ?'

  She shrugged, her eyes on the window. 'Instinct.' He put a hand gently to her marmalade curls. 'I

  must have been more obvious than I realised.'

  She flushed, keeping her eyes averted. 'You love

  Lisa, Sim.'

  `Yes,' he agreed, ruffling her curls. His hand slid round her cheek and raised it. Flushed, her eyes alertly wary, she looked at him, ready to back away.

  `You're a very pretty, very appealing kid,' Sim said huskily. 'I'm sorry if I embarrassed you.'

  She smiled, shaking her head. 'You didn't. I was flattered.'

  His grin appeared. But scared stiff.'

  `You'd better go and buy those red roses,' she said.

  He bent and brushed his mouth over hers so quickly it was over before she knew he had moved. `Thanks, Marcy,' he said, and went.

  When he had gone she sighed. Sim's interest in her had been a difficult thing to tackle. Aware that it was largely due to his problems with his wife, she had been sorry for him, and, liking him, had been giving the subject a good
deal of thought. She was sure Lisa would react with angry, possessive determination once she began to suspect Sim of looking elsewhere, and she knew enough about Lisa by now to know that even her career did not mean as much to her as her marriage.

  While she got ready for dinner with Mr Randal she

  thought about Sim, a little flattered, as she had told him, by the way he had been looking at her lately. He was a nice man, and the faint prickle of awareness whenever she was with him had been something that disturbed her. She looked at herself with a wry smile. It was really rather astonishing that someone like Sim should have shown any interest at all in her, she thought. She saw her tousled, vivid mop of hair, her faint dusting of freckles, her lack of sophistication, and she thought wryly of Lisa, soignee as a swan, her model's smile haughty and assured. She should have warned Sim not to let Lisa guess it had been herself he had been looking at like that . . . Lisa would never in a million years be jealous of someone like her.

  Still, she thought, smoothing her simple green dress down over her hips, Sim was surely smart enough not to have every detail spelt out for him.

  She got a brush and angrily pulled it through her wild curls, trying to put some order into them, but they sprang up ruthlessly once more and she groaned.

  She eyed her reflection, her mouth cross, but even a careful application of powder and lipstick failed to make her look anything other .than what she was; a thin eighteen-year-old in a childishly plain dress.

  Well, she told herself with a grimace, Mr Randal had known what she looked like when he forced the invitation on her! He was lucky she was not turning up in her old jeans.

  It was too warm to wear a coat. She walked slowly along the pavement, waiting for him, feeling the evening sun like a benediction on her skin. The garden was still full of children, their voices echoing

  among the grass in that mysterious way, as if they were wild birds among the garden wilderness, a haunting cry of joy which seemed odd in these dusty streets.

  Sim swung suddenly out of his car beside her, a grin on his face. Marcy looked up at him in surprise, blinking exaggeratedly at the elegance of his dark suit, his silvered black hair lifted by the soft summer breeze as he looked down at her.

  `I rang Lisa at work,' he told her. 'I'm just off to pick her up. She didn't ask any questions, but when I told her where we were dining she got a very suspicious sound in her voice.'

  `Sim,' she said warily, 'don't name any names, will you?'

  He winked at her. 'You can say that to a lawyer? Discretion is my middle name.'

  `I'll keep my fingers crossed for you,' she said, smiling up at him warmly.

  `Just do that,' he said, his hand caressing the slender nape of her neck. 'And if it's a boy I'll call him Mark. A girl . . . Marcy.'

  `You're leaping ahead a bit,' she laughed, touched.

  `I'm betting on that female intuition of yours,' he said wryly. The hand lingered as if reluctant to leave her neck. 'Marcy . .

  She felt her colour rise under the impact of his look. 'You'd better hurry, Sim. Lisa will be waiting.'

  `Oh, wise young judge,' he mocked, his mouth rueful. He kissed her, still holding her neck, and sighed. `Last time, Marcy,' he muttered. 'I promise.' Then he got into his car, gave her a wave and vanished.

  Still flushed and trembling a little, Marcy turned to find herself under cold observation from a long, steel-blue limousine parked a short way up the kerb. She recognised the occupant with a start, and moved towards him. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. She slid inside and turned to give him a curling smile of derision.

  `Company car ?'

  His face was oddly austere. 'You could call it that,' he said. He ran a chilly look over her, and she wondered if he had expected her to be wearing something more alluring.

  Her eyes sparked at him. 'This is the best dress I've got,' she said frankly. 'If it doesn't match wherever you planned to take me, I'm sorry, but as far as I'm concerned the fish and chip shop will be fine.'

  `Who was that you were with?' he asked, brushing aside her remark as if it had no importance.

  She looked at him in immediate wariness, her flush deepening. 'Sim,' she said flatly.

  He frowned. 'The solicitor you told me about ?' She nodded, wondering how much he had seen,

  how much he had heard.

  His hard face observed her. 'A little old for you,

  isn't he ?'

  Not much older than you,' she pointed out softly.

  His face tightened. He silently started the car and it purred away down the street, stared at by passers by, swiftly mingling with the other traffic on busier roads as they headed west.

  Marcy settled back, enjoying the unusual comfort of the car, eyeing the glittering dashboard with

  childish interest, bouncing a little on the springy leather of the seats.

  Randal glanced at her sideways. 'Sit still,' he ordered, as though she were a little girl.

  `Yes, sir,' she murmured, her mouth in that triangular smile he found so oddly attractive. 'Where are you taking me ?'

  He gave her a glinting look. 'In that dress? God knows. You might just pass as a schoolgirl out for the day, I suppose.'

  `You could pretend I was your daughter,' she suggested slyly.

  She saw his hands grip the wheel and felt the anger in him. 'One day I'll lose my temper with you, Marcy,' he said softly.

  She felt a sudden quiver of mixed apprehension and excitement, as though, playing with a dog she had suddenly discovered it to be a wolf.

  She leaned back, assuming, a sudden grave air. `Does the proposition come before dinner or after ?' she enquired coolly.

  `Proposition ?' His brows rose steeply.

  `You aren't taking me out to dinner in the West End without some ulterior motive,' she pointed out.

  `I thought,' he murmured softly, 'we had agreed my motive was seduction.'

  She giggled. 'Not in public, surely?'

  He observed her obliquely through his lashes. 'You would prefer somewhere private ?'

  Marcy was abruptly wary. 'I would prefer it if you turned round and took me straight back home,' she said.

  `Then you'd never know exactly what I'm up to,' he pointed out in equal gravity.

  `I've a pretty shrewd idea,' she retorted.

  `I'm fascinated,' he murmured. 'Are you going to tell me ?'

  `Saxtons sent you to get me to agree to their terms,' she said flatly. 'I would say you'd been told to pick your own methods: bribery, blackmail or corruption . . . no holds barred.' She looked at him, turning, her arm along the seat, facing him. 'They've already tried bribery and failed. Now comes the attempted corruption.'

  `Seduction is a much nicer word,' he offered mildly. `It comes to the same thing,' she said coolly.

  His brow lifted. 'Does it? How wide is your experience of either, Miss Campion ?'

  She did not rise to the bait. Softly, she said, I was brought up on the Cornish coast, Mr Randal. On summer days the sea can be as blue as your eyes, but anyone who knows the coast is well aware of the ugly rocks which lurk beneath those waters.'

  He glanced at her in sudden intentness. His glance probed hers sharply. 'Did the rocks stop you from swimming, Miss Campion ?'

  Her eyes danced in amusement, their green bright as glass. 'I swim like a fish,' she admitted.

  `I had a feeling you did,' he said.

  She felt a peculiar excitement running over her skin, as though electricity tingled through her, and she eyed him cautiously. He was more dangerous than she had supposed.

  He pulled up suddenly in a quiet, elegant street of

  Georgian houses whose white facades had been carefully, lovingly preserved over the years. Marcy looked up at them, then at him, her fine brows quizzical.

  `I want to introduce you to someone,' he said.

  She sat up very straight, her mouth mutinous. 'I'm not as green as I look, Mr Randal. I'm not going in there.'

  He leaned on the steering wheel, studyin
g her calmly. 'Not even to meet the managing director of Saxtons ?'

  She made a whistling sound, her small mouth pursed. 'Good lord, I must have made quite a dent on that monolithic facade if the big wheel himself wants to meet me !'

  A look of dry humour touched his handsome face. `Yes, I think you can say that.'

  She gave him a tomboy grin. 'All right,. Mr Errand Boy, take me to your leader!'

  If her mockery were intended to deflate him it failed. He gave her another dry look of amusement, and came round to help her out of the car, his hand under her elbow.

  They went up the four wide white steps beneath the charming portico which was supported by Corinthian pillars. Randal rapped the polished lion's head sharply once. A moment later the door swung open and a butler gave them both a grave, reverent glance.

  `Good evening, Mr Randal, sir,' he observed calmly, standing back. 'Good evening, miss.'

  Randal nodded to him and led Marcy, his fingers curled around her slender bare arm, through the long hall, with its polished parquet floor and bowls of

  bright summer flowers, into an elegantly furnished sitting-room.

  She stood, entranced, staring around the room in delight. The walls were papered in a silky pale blue which had a faintly raised fleur-de-lis pattern in the same shade at regular intervals. A delicate gilt mirror hung on one wall. On the other two, apart from the one containing a high window, hung quiet landscapes which she recognised vaguely as being Dutch, their muted colours blending into the soft colours of the room. At the window hung floor-length curtains of dark blue. velvet. The carpet was white, the pile so deep she could feel it give beneath her feet like snow.

  Randal was watching her heart-shaped, expressive face with acute interest.

  She looked at him, smiling her triangular little smile. 'So this is how the other half lives ! After Paradise Street it looks as genuine as a plastic daffodil.'

  His eyes narrowed, a faintly cruel look in them. She was taken aback by the expression, her own eyes enquiring the reason for his sudden hostility.