by Robyn Donald
His moody dark eyes surveyed her with a sensual appreciation that made his career as a screen heart-throb inevitable.
Jacinta smiled as she thanked him, thinking ironically that if you were worried about social graces, wearing a broken heart made evenings like this ridiculously easy because it was impossible to care what people thought of you.
Except for one person, and his opinion had been only too plain. Her eyes searched the crowd, now noisily talking and laughing, and found Paul. He was standing a little apart, talking to two men who, although they wore similar cotton trousers and short-sleeved shirts to every other man there, had ‘suits’ written all over them.
Against Paul’s effortless authority Harry looked somehow unformed, a man in the making. And yet he was her age, almost thirty, not all that much younger than Paul, who had probably been born with that uncompromising aura of dominance. It was something to do with inner strength, a confidence so firmly rooted in character that it was unbreakable.
And a sexual promise that drew her and every other woman there with its subtle, powerful lure. What had happened to turn him off like that? He’d taken one look at her and despised her; she’d seen the swift flash of cold contempt in his eyes before the shutters came down and blocked her out.
She spent the next hour listening to Harry Moore. He drank more than she liked, and although his eyes followed his girlfriend as she flitted from group to group he stayed close to Jacinta, making her laugh with tales of happenings—most funny, but some appalling—on the sets of various films he’d made.
Eventually his girlfriend came back, and Jacinta took the opportunity to move across to Laurence Perry, the pleasantly ugly middle-aged actor who was also staying the night. He gave her a ravaged, intense smile and observed, ‘I envy you living in this magnificent place.’
Jacinta’s answering smile would probably be engraved on her face for days. ‘I’m just visiting, unfortunately. Have you enjoyed your stay in New Zealand?’
His glance moved to the slim woman at Paul’s side. ‘Very much,’ he said. ‘You know, when we met this afternoon I thought you reminded me of someone and I couldn’t work out who it was until I saw you wrapped in that gauzy golden robe.’
Jacinta fixed an interested look to her face. ‘Do I have a double?’
‘Not exactly a double, but a hundred or so years ago there was someone who looked very like you,’ Laurence said, shrewd eyes studying her. ‘My grandmother had a print of a picture painted by a Victorian, one of the Pre-Raphaelites. It’s called Flaming June and shows a bare-armed girl sleeping; she had your high-bridged nose and soft mouth, and she was your colouring too. As well, she was draped in a cloth the exact orange-gold in your veil.’
Jacinta lifted her brows. ‘How intriguing,’ she said, her voice steady. Paul and Meriam were making their way towards them, and she’d noted the way the other woman’s hand was clinging to his arm. Anguish twisted inside her; she said, ‘I must see if I can track down a copy. I wonder if she was teased as much as I was because of her ginger hair.’
‘Did they call you Carrots?’
She surprised herself by producing a wry little laugh. ‘Oh, yes. All sorts of variations on the theme of carrots and gingerbread.’
‘But now you have the last word,’ he said, and smiled at her surprise. ‘Most of them would probably give their eye-teeth to have green eyes and luminous ivory skin and hair like yours,’ he said, embarrassing her.
‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘Buying sunscreen to stop me burning makes me prohibitively expensive to keep.’ And she flushed as she realised how provocative her comment might sound.
Just as Paul and Meriam came up he grinned and said, ‘But worth it, surely?’
‘Worth what?’ Meriam said, looking alertly from one to the other.
‘Worth spending an inordinate amount of money on sunblock to protect that glorious skin,’ Laurence said promptly.
Jacinta hadn’t looked at Paul; his tone came as an unpleasant surprise. ‘Indeed it is,’ he drawled, each word like a tiny whip scoring deep into her composure.
Although Meriam Anderson wasn’t beautiful, she wore her hair and make-up and clothes with a panache that made up for her lack of looks. ‘Thank heavens we live in a time when we have sunblocks,’ she said then. ‘Paul, you throw a wonderful party. What would you say if I asked to stay an extra couple of days?’
‘I’d be delighted. Is there any chance of that?’
‘Sadly, no,’ she sighed. ‘But I’ll take a raincheck on the invitation, Paul.’
He smiled at her. Jacinta drew in an uneven breath.
Without trying, she thought, suddenly defenceless against him, he dominated the whole scene. All right, he was clever and handsome, but these people were sophisticated and worldly, and used to the authority and power that money gave, and yet none of them could hold a candle to him.
Even Harry Moore’s girlfriend was watching him with an intent, speculative look.
Well, Jacinta was not going to let her own heated yearning and acute awareness of Paul spoil this occasion. It was probably the only time in her life she’d be at a gathering like this, and she was determined to at least appreciate it.
Paul stayed with Meriam. Neither was overt or obvious, unlike Liane, who was now wound around Harry; however, it was perfectly clear that they found each other very interesting.
I am not in love with him, Jacinta told herself as she circulated. I am not. Not now, not ever.
But as the evening wore on she found it more and more difficult to keep up the pretence. If it hadn’t seemed like an obscure form of surrender she’d have sneaked quietly away after they’d eaten dinner—superb and succulent meat from the spit, fish wrapped in taro leaves and baked in coals, salads that were miracles of taste and freshness, and fruit, cleverly laid out on a table covered with the fronds of New Zealand’s native palm and the vivid, incandescent flowers of hibiscuses.
She stuck it out, although later, when she came to sort out her recollections, she found she remembered very little. However, she spoke to everyone there, surprised at how polite and pleasant and interested in her they all seemed.
You didn’t know it but you’re a snob, she thought when at last she decided that she’d had enough, late enough in the evening for pride to be properly salvaged. You thought they’d all be crass and snobbish and aggressive, like the worst and most newsworthy of Hollywood stars.
Paul and Meriam were talking to a couple of the money men. She’d have liked to leave without anyone noticing, but even as the thought whisked through her mind Paul looked up, his eyes resting on her face with unsettling dispassion. He said something to the others and left them, walking towards her with lithe grace.
An hour or so previously a little wind had sprung up from the sea, and everyone had moved onto the lawn, where the trees sheltered them. In spite of the sea breeze it was still very warm, and the guests had reached that pleasant stage where they were enjoying themselves without tension.
Except for her. And the cause of her tension was walking towards her, his hair gleaming silver in the lights.
‘I’ve had a wonderful party, but if you don’t mind I’ll slip away now,’ she said when he got closer.
‘Before anyone else?’
The implied criticism made her stiffen. ‘No one’s going to miss me,’ she said.
‘Oh, I think they might. You’ve been a definite hit. Liane has decided you’re a threat to her power over Harry.’
She drew in a swift breath, trying to ignore the soft, cynical drawl. ‘She’s very insecure,’ she said. ‘It’s been great—fascinating—’
‘But you’ve had enough.’
Jacinta looked up, caught the glitter of his eyes, the hard line of his mouth, a line that gentled into a smile, coaxing, half-rueful, completely compelling. ‘No, of course not,’ she said, surrendering.
He looked past her. ‘Good,’ he said, adding, ‘It won’t be long now anyway. Here comes the coffee.’
&
nbsp; He was right. Everyone drank coffee, and soon, amid a flurry of trans-Pacific farewells and best wishes, the convoy of cars left the homestead for Auckland.
‘A great evening,’ Laurence Perry declared as the last one left. ‘Thank you, Paul, for more excellent Kiwi hospitality. I’m turning in.’
‘I don’t feel like going to bed yet,’ Meriam said with a half-laugh. ‘I’m wired. It’s such a beautiful night, I’d like to go for a walk.’
‘Why not?’ Paul’s deep, beautiful voice was lazily amused.
Jacinta turned away. ‘Goodnight,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
Thank heavens she could retire to her bedroom and close the doors and pull the curtains so that no one could see her.
And thank heavens that even the most shattering emotions eventually gave way to sleep.
A sleep that was disturbed much later by a woman’s laughter, and the sound of light footsteps on the verandah. Meriam, she thought; Paul moved noiselessly. But then she heard Paul’s voice, and immediately stuffed her head under her pillow.
When she finally emerged from the sanctuary of her pillow all was silent again except for the soft whispering of a wind playing along the wooden fretwork lace above the verandah. For some reason she got up to pull the curtains more tightly, and saw a light glimmering across the floor of the verandah It came from Paul’s room.
It needn’t mean anything, she thought desperately, closing her eyes against it. Perhaps he couldn’t sleep either. He didn’t strike her as promiscuous—but then he could have been conducting an affair with Meriam for months, all the time the film company had been in New Zealand.
Neither he nor the producer’s assistant were the sort of person who proclaimed their emotions, but they’d definitely been ‘together’ the preceding night. Whether that togetherness had extended to the bedroom she had no way of knowing.
And where did that leave the actress Gerard had pointed out to her in Ponsonby?
It’s none of your business, she told herself drearily, turning away to crawl back into bed.
She woke late, so late that the house was silent around her, and when she came out the guests were gone, and Paul with them. The caterers had cleaned up and gone the night before, so that all that was left of the party was the darker green of the lawn where it had been crushed by feet.
For the first time Jacinta wondered just how much money Paul had. Such quiet, efficient service was expensive, but more than that, it was difficult to find. Even a housekeeper was hard to get.
Paul could buy such service, apparently without worrying about the cost.
Of course, she thought desolately, he’d been born to this. She had grown up with poverty. And yet in many ways they had a lot in common. New Zealand didn’t have much of a class system—
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she said aloud, furious with herself for spinning dreams out of gossamer.
They had nothing in common, and he couldn’t have made that plainer the night before.
After she’d eaten toast and fruit for breakfast, she went for a long walk and then settled down in the lounger outside her room to read some of the book he’d bought her. Of course she knew what she was doing; she was waiting.
But after a while the book began to make sense to her. She read and reread a couple of pages and put it down, staring sightlessly out into the sunlight. Ideas began to collect in her mind, too bright to resist. She got to her feet and set off for the computer.
Hours later she came back to herself, thinking exultantly, Yes!
It was good; she knew it was good.
She saved everything, backed it up and stretched, yawning. Suddenly ravenous, she looked at her watch. It was half past two, so for once Fran had forgotten about her.
In the kitchen Jacinta made herself a sandwich—cheese and tomato and cress, with a touch of Fran’s pesto. Taking it out across the lawn, she sat down in the gazebo and applied herself to eating it, forcing the food over the lump in her chest.
When she’d finished she drank a glass of the orange juice that Fran squeezed every morning, concentrating ferociously on the thick, delicious freshness, the combination of sweet and tangy flavours, the way it eased across her tongue and down her throat, because that was the only way she could deal with this—this despair that had been lying in wait for her ever since she’d woken.
She wanted to wail and shriek and beat her breast and stamp her feet at the total unfairness of the world, at her own stupidity in falling in love with a man who was not for her.
But, even as she imagined herself losing control so appallingly, a reluctant, unwilling smile tugged at her mouth.
‘I seem to remember reading something about how pleasant it is to come upon a woman smiling to herself.’ Paul’s voice was studied and speculative as he walked around the corner of the gazebo, past the scented, smothering flowers of the rose that draped itself artistically across the white-painted timber.
Jacinta’s heart leapt. ‘It sounds Victorian,’ she said, hoping her voice was as steady as his.
‘Sentimental?’ The sun gleamed on his hair, caught the vivid depths of his eyes and picked out the arrogant, hard-planed contours of his face.
She smiled again. It was difficult, but she thought she carried it off rather well. ‘The Victorians often were sentimental.’
‘Agreed.’ He scrutinised her with an oddly measuring look, as though he was superimposing another’s features on hers, and said, ‘Yes, I see what Laurence meant last night. You have the kind of face the Pre-Raphaelites loved to paint.’
It didn’t exactly sound like a compliment, and yet his glance lingered a second too long on her mouth. Jacinta’s pulse picked up speed.
‘I’m flattered,’ she returned politely. There followed an unnerving moment of silence, one she broke by asking, ‘Have you just come back?’
‘About five minutes ago. I took them down to the airport and sent them on their way. What have you been doing?’
‘Writing,’ she said succinctly, and added, ‘And I must thank you again for the book you bought. I read a couple of chapters, and while I was going through a list of dos and don’ts I realised where I was going wrong.’
‘Good,’ he said, and leaned over to pick a rose from the edge of the gazebo. ‘It’s the same colour as your hair,’ he said, tucking it in behind her ear. Her ear and scalp tingled, and she thought she could feel his touch right to the roots of her hair.
Hair couldn’t feel, she reminded herself feverishly, it was dead—but the effects of that moment of closeness rippled down her spine in a shiver of delight.
Eyes half closed, he stepped back and surveyed her. ‘Yes, exactly the same colour. So the manuscript is coming along well?’
‘I think it is,’ she said cautiously, and astonished herself by confiding, ‘I’ve been trying to follow the plot my mother and I worked out, but it was really difficult; when I reread what I’d written it dragged horribly. The book said that if the characters wouldn’t do what the writer wanted them to, the writer should give them a chance and see what happened.’
He nodded, blue eyes keen and perceptive. ‘And what has happened?’
‘Well,’ she said ruefully, ‘it’s heading in a completely different direction from the one Mum and I mapped out.’
‘And that worries you?’
She looked down at her hands. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I suppose that’s why I’ve resisted it. I feel as though I’ve cut loose from my mother. Abandoned her, in fact. The book was to be a memorial to her, but if I do follow the characters it won’t be the book she loved and helped create.’
‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But, you know, you’ll never produce anything worthwhile if you don’t take it for your own. We can’t live other people’s lives for them, or produce other people’s work.’
Once more surprised at how perceptive he was, she nodded. Although he probably owed his career to his understanding of people’s motives and actions.
; ‘I didn’t know I had this itch to write,’ she said. An itch so powerful that even when her emotional life was in turmoil she was almost able to ignore it while she wrote.
And ease some of the pain by treating it as material for her work.
‘How do you go about it?’ he asked.
‘At first I tried to write each sentence perfectly, but that was impossible, so now I’m getting everything down as quickly as I can, and then I’ll go back and tidy it up and cut out the padding and put in the bits I need to expand on.’
‘And then?’
She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
His gaze was a cool blue challenge. ‘Where do you plan to send it?’
‘I hadn’t—’
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to spend three months writing it and then put it in the bottom of your wardrobe for the rest of your life!’
Uncertainly, she said, ‘I don’t know how good it is.’
‘You’re not likely to ever find out until you send it off,’ he said with matter-of-fact directness. ‘I assume that’s what your mother wanted you to do?’
Jacinta hesitated. ‘I suppose so. We never discussed it.’
‘Most writing is done for publication.’
‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ she demanded, half-angry and half-exhilarated at this new idea. ‘I’d never really thought of anyone else reading it. Now every time I sit down to write I’ll see the public sitting on my shoulder.’
‘Inhibiting you?’
‘Well—no,’ she said. ‘At least, I hope not.’
He looked at her for several seconds, his mouth straight and almost grim, before saying calmly, ‘I’d certainly give it a go. You’re enjoying doing it, aren’t you?’
‘Mostly,’ she admitted. ‘When I’m not so frustrated I could jump up and down with rage.’
‘I believe that’s the way it happens,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a walk. You probably need it and I certainly do. I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow, and I have a very busy week ahead.’
Loneliness clawed her. Trying to sound normal, she said, ‘I’d love to see Europe. Especially France and Italy.’