Sweet Compulsion

by Woolf, Victoria

  Before either of the two of them had recovered from the surprise of the invasion, Randal Saxton slowly came down the stairs, his blue eyes fixed on Marcy's white, stunned face.

  Some wild instinct took her to his side, her eyes raised to his face, silently begging him to help her. He slid an arm around the slender figure, pulling her possessively against his lean, strong body, and, with a yielding sigh, she turned her face into the material of his dark suit, leaving the situation entirely to him.

  The reporters began firing questions at him. 'Is it true, Mr Saxton, that your firm have suddenly re-

  versed their policy about the development? Why have you changed your minds? What do you now intend to do ?' Their voices shouted one above the other, the questions interrupting each other in a babbled din.

  Photographers scrambled to take pictures of Ran-dal Saxton, his arm, in unmistakable protection, around Marcy's slight figure.

  Randal held up his long hand, a look of calm authority on his hard face. 'Please, gentlemen. I shall make one statement, and that must suffice for all of you. All future press releases on the subject will be made by my press office.'

  The babble broke out again, but he quelled it with a crisp, icy voice. 'Shut up! Now, Miss Marcy Campion and myself are engaged to be married.' In the firm circle of his arms a protesting, incredulous movement from the slight figure was quelled ruthlessly, his hand on her bright curls, forcing her head into his jacket. 'In consequence, the difficulties about the development are now over. This house and the garden will be made into an integral part of the development, to be called in the future, The Campion Centre. My fiancee wishes the people of the borough themselves to decide what to do with the centre. There will be full democratic involvement at public meetings. A committee will be formed of local people to draw up plans. My firm will place an architect at their disposal to assist them.' He gave them all a polite, formal smile. 'That's all, gentlemen. Good day.'

  If Randal had seriously imagined that he would get away with making such a statement without being

  bombarded with questions, he was wrong. The air was thick with shouted words. Reporters jostled to bellow at him. Marcy, held against him protectively, heard their voices in a muffled bellow, like angry bulls, and pressed closer, shivering, so that his hand comfortingly stroked her hair, his thumb finding her slender nape and rubbing it soothingly, sensing the alarm and tension inside her.

  Lisa Gold stood to one side, staring out of disbelieving yet astounded eyes at the two of them. Randal was at bay, protecting Marcy, the whole attitude of the way he held her telling its own story.

  `Can we have a picture of you and Miss Campion, sir ?' a small, sharp-faced photographer asked, his hand plucking at Marcy's slender arm.

  Randal's free hand moved to push him away, a sudden rage in his face. 'Leave her alone!'

  Lisa, swept aside in the stampede, saw the look in the handsome, hard face, and her woman's instinct told her that however Sim might have felt about Marcy, this man was the man in possession. Every look he threw down at the small body in his arms said as much. Her slim shoulders lowered in a sigh. She had made a fool of herself, and she was irritated by the thought.

  `Just one picture,' the photographers pleaded. `We've taken pictures of Miss Campion before, sir. Our readers will want to see the two of you kissing . .

  Marcy quivered. Randal looked down at the wild, marmalade mop of her hair, thinking fast. He was afraid to release her in case she denied their engage-

  ment. He inwardly cursed the photographers, then his strong hands held her away from him and in a deft, swift movement, his mouth came down to close over hers before she could speak.

  Her green eyes glared at him helplessly, then a gasp came from the small mouth as the violence and passion in his kiss reached her, and involuntarily the small white lids closed, the lashes fluttering down against her flushed cheek. Her arms slid round his neck, her whole slight body curved towards him. Flashbulbs exploded all around them. Marcy felt them like fireworks under her closed lids. All she could think of was the extraordinary sweetness of what Randal was doing to her.

  Sim, arriving at that moment, having received Marcy's message, stared incredulously over the thronged heads of the journalists, seeing Randal Saxton with his arms tightly laced around the body of the slight girl in her black velvet suit, the lightning of flashbulbs illuminating them, as they kissed with a passion which was clear to everyone who looked at them.

  Lisa, catching sight of him, slid around the back of the crowd, to touch his arm. Sim looked at her in surprise, flushing. Last night Lisa had been vitriolic, far too quick to guess exactly who he had been tempted to look at more than once, and he wondered what exactly she was doing here. Her smile took him aback.

  `Fancy that little kid catching a man like Randal Saxton,' she said, a slight envy in her tone mingling with the relief she was feeling. Marcy's embarrassed

  reaction to her tirade now made her feel stupid. She had been wrong in her accusations. Whatever had been in her Sim's mind had not been in the mind of the girl. Much as Lisa loved her Sim, she was not fool enough to imagine anyone turning down a millionaire for an East End solicitor.

  `What's going on?' Sim asked huskily.

  `They're engaged,' said Lisa, looking at him in sudden compassion. It occurred to her that beneath his interest in that girl must be a deep longing for a daughter of his own, a child to whom he could show all his tenderness. She touched his cheek, her eyes approving his distinguished appearance. He was worth looking at, her Sim. He looked at her and she smiled at him.

  `You know, if I don't have a baby soon I'll be too old to enjoy it,' she said.

  Sim's breath seemed to stop. Delight broke out on his face. 'Oh, Lisa,' he said shakily. Behind them the hubbtib continued, and he looked round at the press irritably. 'I'd better put a stop to this,' he said. He pushed his way through the crowd and caught his brother's arm. 'Get them out, Russ.'

  `Have a heart,' said Russell. 'This is the story of the year. What a twist! Let the dog see the rabbit.'

  `Can we have a statement from the girl? She hasn't said a word yet,' a journalist called.

  `Can we have a smile, Mr Saxton?' a photographer shouted.

  `Hold hands, Marcy,' another hissed.

  `Get out of the way!' a photographer snarled at Sim, elbowing him.

  Randal had released Marcy's mouth with reluctance, but he was staring down at her tenderly, and she was gazing at him, a strange, distraught, incredulous flickering smile on her mouth. The way he had kissed her had totally astonished her, and his announcement seemed almost to have been pushed to the back of her mind by the shock of his passion.

  Randal looked round and saw Sim. Naked antagonism came into Randal's face, and the two men stared at each other. The reporters shouted questions. Randal asked Marcy, 'Do you feel up to talking to the bastards ?'

  `What shall I say ?' she asked submissively. `Just take my lead,' he said.

  Questions flew like missiles from all directions. Randal answered them when he could, and Marcy softly made parrying replies when forced to do so. She held Randal's hand, they smiled at each other, flashbulbs dazzled her.

  `Where's the ring ?' one asked.

  `Being altered,' said Randal blandly. 'Too big for her hand,' and he lifted one of them to demonstrate the fine small fingers, bending his dark head to kiss it gracefully. The photographers palpitated, snatching pictures of the movement.

  `What's the ring like ?' a reporter asked.

  Randal glanced into Marcy's incredulous, anxious eyes. 'An emerald,' he said coolly. 'A family ring.'

  A woman reporter pushed a fascinated head through the ring of faces. 'Is it a family heirloom, Mr Saxton?'

  Randal nodded.

  `How long have you known Marcy? When's the wedding? When did you propose ?' Questions flooded at them and left Marcy blinking, dazed.

  `I fell in love with her at first sight,' Randal explained in his bland, polite voice. 'We're getting
married as soon as possible.'

  The clamour of voices seemed to swell. Marcy was feeling cold and weak. A buzzing in her head sounded as if a flock of bees had flown in through her ears. She looked at Randal imploringly, giving a muffled cry, and his head swung to her in alarm just as she slid to the floor. Sim moved anxiously, but Randal had already gathered her up into his arms, her bright head falling back over his sleeve while his hard face looked at her in white anxiety. The photographers almost died of excitement, snapping like sharks around them, filling the dark hall with the brilliance of flashbulbs.

  `My God, you vultures, leave her alone!' Randal snarled, pushing past them. 'You,' he said savagely to Sim. 'Get them all out of here.'

  Sim shepherded the journalists and photographers towards the door, Russell reluctantly aiding him, rounding up obstinate strays who tried to dart into the room where Randal had carried Marcy, pushing them all out of the front door with threats about the police, until at last they were all gone, and the house seemed almost eerily silent.

  Russell leaned against the door, grinning, a low soft whistle on his mouth. 'That little kid . . . who'd have thought it? She's pulled one surprise after

  another . . . her and Randal Saxton. Sim, did she give you any clue ?'

  `Hadn't you better phone your story through ?' Sim asked him flatly.

  `God,' Russell groaned, running a hand through his hair, 'I must be losing my mind!' He pulled open the door and vanished.

  Sim stood, his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. Lisa glided to him with her swaying model's walk and slid her hand through his arm. He turned to look at her and gave her a smile.

  `Well, quite a shock for everyone,' he commented. `So Paradise Street is here to stay . . . it will mean a lot of work. I know these committees. Talk, talk, talk before anything gets done.'

  `I've got to get to work,' said Lisa. Her eyes caressed his face. 'I'll see you tonight, darling.'

  Sim kissed her tenderly. 'You can take a bet on that,' he grinned.

  Lisa swayed out of the door and Sim turned to look at the closed door behind which Marcy was with Randal Saxton. He remembered her words about 'a date' who would surprise him. Well, it had surprised everyone. Yet he was not surprised. She was capable of anything, that little girl.

  Behind the closed door Randal was kneeling beside Marcy's prone figure, watching as her eyelids stirred reluctantly. She opened them and looked round at him. Her face was still so white it made him sick with anxiety and she looked unbelievably fragile, as though one touch might shatter her into a million fragments.

  She sighed. 'Have they all gone ?'

  `All gone,' he agreed.

  `I made some tea before they arrived, but it must be stone cold by now,' she said.

  make some more.'

  Her hand caught at his sleeve. 'No. Wait, Randal.' He looked down, his face becoming wary. 'Yes ?' `Why did you do it ?' she asked him breathlessly.

  `Why on earth did you say that ?'

  `You were in a spot,' he said. 'You were asking me for help.'

  Her lashes flickered with embarrassment. She remembered the alarm with which she had gone to him as he came down the stairs, begging him silently to do something. Lisa's threat had unnerved her for a moment.

  `You shouldn't have told them such huge lies,' she said, faint colour returning to her face. 'I mean, sooner or later it will have to be proved to be a lie. We aren't engaged, Randal.'

  His smile was bland. 'Of course we are.'

  She gasped. 'You know we aren't!'

  `I stated it publicly, my darling, and you didn't deny it,' he said mockingly. 'That constitutes a formal declaration of intent, wouldn't you say?'

  Marcy sat upright abruptly. 'Randal, what are you up to ?' she demanded. 'What do you think you're doing ?'

  He sat down beside her on the broken old sofa and grinned annoyingly at her. 'I'm turning a disastrous defeat into a victory of magnificent proportions,' he murmured.

  Her quick green eyes surveyed him. 'Are you talking about Saxtons or about us ?'

  A strange cold hardness came into his face. `Both,' he said. 'Are you going to tell me about Sim, Marcy?'

  She was instantly scarlet. 'You heard!'

  `His wife made no effort to keep her voice down,' he said drily. 'What fire was there beneath the smoke, Marcy?' He searched her green eyes intently. 'I saw him with you once, remember. He kissed you. So don't tell me there was nothing.'

  She looked down, plaiting her thin small fingers into a web. 'It was nothing. Nothing to speak of . .

  `A kiss? Or more than one kiss, I'd say,' said Randal harshly. 'From a married man of his age to a child of yours ?'

  Marcy made a quivering movement of the shoulders, a sigh. 'He was unhappy . . . he—liked me. All he did was look, Randal, and that stopped after I'd spoken to him.'

  `All he did was look,' Randal repeated grimly. His hand raised her lowered head, forced her to look at him. 'He wanted you.'

  `Not like that,' she protested, ashamed and angry. `You make it sound . . . horrible ! Sim's kind and sweet . .

  `I'm sure he is,' said Randal sourly. 'I'm sure he wanted to be as kind and sweet as you would let him be. I've seen the way he looks at you . . .' And he recognised it, he thought with sickening jealousy.

  `Sim loves his wife,' said Marcy. 'It was just an aberration.' The word came as a momentary inspira-

  tion. 'He was miserable and he saw a lot of me, and . . . and I like children . .

  Randal bent a puzzled look on her face. `What?'

  `His wife wouldn't have any, and Sim's desperate,' Marcy explained. 'That was really what it was all about. He would never have fancied me otherwise.'

  Randal's mouth softened into satire. 'So he fancied you, did he ? And did you fancy him, Marcy ?'

  `No !' She looked angry, then a flash of amusement came into the green eyes and she gave him a curiously provocative little smile, her lashes lowering. 'Well, only the way most girls fancy good-looking older men like you and Sim . .

  Randal's face froze. He stared at the heart-shaped, flushed face with eyes of blue ice. 'My God, you certainly hit below the belt, Marcy,' he said thickly.

  She was puzzled, looking at him in surprise. `What's wrong? I was teasing.'

  `Teasing!' He said the word with angry emphasis, and rose and moved away, his body taut wjth fierce emotion. He stood with his back to her for a while, his head averted, while she looked at him in bemused wonder.

  At last he turned and looked at her, his face cool. `You can't stay here after this,' he said.

  `Why not ?' Her eyes widened.

  `Have you any idea what sort of whirlwind is going to be blowing around your unprotected head now that this story has broken?' he asked wryly. 'The fuss about the Paradise Street project is nothing compared with the interest there's going to be in our engagement.'

  `We'll just tell them we changed our minds,' she offered lightly, smiling at him.

  `We haven't done anything of the kind,' Randal told her crisply.

  `Randal!'

  `I'm holding you to it,' he said, ignoring her cry of protest.

  Marcy sat staring at him, her eyes growing very large. 'Randal, are you putting me in your pocket ?' she asked after a moment.

  The question made him laugh involuntarily. A wry smile made his blue eyes gleam. 'That's about the size of it,' he agreed blandly.

  She looked indignant. 'You can't do that sort of thing to people,' she cried reprovingly. 'That may be how you go about acquiring firms and property, but not people, Randal!'

  He came back, staring at her with blue eyes which danced and were insolently assured. But I'm doing it,' he said. 'I told you when you came to my house that I wanted you, Marcy. When I was a little boy I had a favourite book. It had the most marvellous illustrations in it. One of them was of a princess sitting beside a pond. She had golden curls just the same colour as yours, and great big eyes . . . I've still got the book safely locked away at home. And now I'm going t
o have you, too.'

  Her face sobered incredulously. 'That's frightening . . .' she murmured. 'Randal, you make me feel frightened.'

  He sat down beside her again, turning her small head towards him with a warm, possessive hand,

  smiling into her alarmed green eyes. 'There's no need to be, Marcy. I look after what I own.'

  `I don't want you to own me,' she said breathlessly. `I'm a human being with feelings and a mind of my own. You wouldn't leave me room to breathe—you'd steamroller over me and flatten me into being the sort of person you want me to be.'

  `I want you just as you are,' he said softly, his fingers caressing her soft chin. 'Just exactly the way you are, Marcy.' And he bent his head forward to kiss her, so gently, so softly, that the kiss was over in a second or two, but she was left with an indelible impression that in that second he had possessed her, taken her without a struggle, leaving the mark of his ownership on her almost visibly.

  `Don't do it, Randal,' she whispered imploringly.

  He gave her an odd little smile. 'If you really wanted to get away you could, Marcy,' he told her tolerantly. 'There are no bars on the windows, no locks on the doors. All you have to do is walk away.'

  `But . . .' her voice was husky, uncertain, 'you—you won't let me . .

  `How can I stop you?' he asked gently. 'Everything I do is with your consent, Marcy.'

  She stared at him, shaking her head. `No !'

  At that instant Sim knocked on the door and put his head round it, glancing swiftly across the room at them, taking in the intimate closeness of their two bodies, the clearly intimate conversation which was taking place. 'Sorry to interrupt . . . you all right, Marcy ?'

  `Yes, thank you, Sim,' she said, flushing, nervously

  aware of Randal watching the two of them.