Follow a Stranger

by Charlotte Lamb

  shared love of Bach, and discussed various recordings

  with her, with almost professional enthusiasm and

  knowledge.

  Kate felt Marc’s eyes upon them from time to time,

  probing, curious, watchful. He was flirting lazily with

  Marie-Louise most of the time, fencing easily with her

  when she tried to provoke a show of jealousy by referring

  to her many admirers in Paris.

  Her boasts of her conquests made Kate wonder if Marc

  were wise in not marrying her quickly. She could not

  believe that Marie-Louise did not desire to marry him.

  Everything she said, every look, said that she was ready

  and eager to be his wife. But was Marc not content,

  perhaps, merely to own the lovely French girl? Did he

  want to be certain of her fidelity? Perhaps he took her

  boasts of conquests too seriously, not seeing them for

  what they were—a blatant attempt to make him declare

  himself jealously.

  After dinner Marie-Louise put a sleepy record on the

  turntable and she and Marc danced in the lounge, her

  black head upon his shoulder, leaning close to him.

  Jean-Paul leaned over and asked Kate to dance. She

  smiled and stood up, going into his arms. She caught the

  exchange of looks between Pallas and Sam, her brother’s

  raised eyebrows and grin. But Pallas was not looking as

  triumphant as she ought to do if she was really

  indifferent to Jean-Paul. She was, interestingly,

  frowning.

  Jean-Paul looked down at Kate. “How am I doing?” he

  asked, with a mischievous grin.

  “Is this part of your plan?” she asked, laughing. “To

  use me as a tease for Pallas?”

  “You object?” he asked anxiously. “Your fiancé will

  mind, perhaps?”

  “No,” she said quickly, smiling, “he won’t mind. And

  neither do I. It’s in a good cause.”

  Jean-Paul looked relieved, and pulled her closer,

  bending his head to whisper in her ear, “You are a most

  unusual girl, Kate.”

  She smiled, then met Marc’s glance over Jean-Paul’s

  shoulder. Marc was not smiling. He was looking savagely

  angry again, the arrogant features dark and saturnine,

  the grey eyes biting.

  Kate looked away. He was angry with her, of course,

  for flirting with his sister’s promised husband. He

  probably thought her contemptible for attempting to

  steal Pallas’s lover. She felt chilled, but tilted her chin

  defiantly. Let him think what he liked. She and Jean-

  Paul were going to set Pallas free to choose for herself.

  Later, Jean-Paul spoke discreetly to Marc, who looked

  a little surprised, but gestured politely towards the part

  of the house in which his office lay. They walked out, in

  quiet conversation. Jean-Paul returned alone. He spoke

  softly to Kate, his face grave. “I have done it. I told Marc

  I had changed my mind.”

  “What did he say?” she asked involuntarily.

  He shrugged. “He said very little—I was rather

  surprised. But he seemed displeased. Of course, there

  had been no official announcement. It was just an

  understanding between us, so there can be no gossip.”

  “Did he ask you why?” she queried, wondering what

  Marc had thought of Jean-Paul’s unexpected change of

  heart. She could imagine him being very angry,

  particularly after the savage way he had looked at her

  while she was dancing with Jean-Paul.

  “No, he seemed very thoughtful. Perhaps he has some

  business worry on his mind. Marc and I are old friends,

  but I felt a certain ... how shall I put it? ... distance,

  between us. I did not explain my motives to him, since I

  know he would try to persuade me to change my mind.”

  Jean-Paul grinned at her. “He is an autocrat, as you

  must have realised. The Lillitos family obey him without

  question. And his business interests are so vast ...” he

  lifted his shoulders in a Gallic gesture, “it is not

  surprising he is so dictatorial at times.”

  “It is irritating, though,” she said, “and I don’t think

  one should pander to his god complex. He isn’t a tinpot

  little divinity, whatever he thinks.”

  Jean-Paul looked both astounded and deeply amused.

  “A tinpot little divinity? Is that how you see him?” He

  stared into her blue eyes, smiling. “As I said before, you

  are a most unusual girl.”

  Next morning the sky was a little overcast and Kate

  decided to take the opportunity of sitting out on the

  beach again, while the sun was not so hot. Pallas and

  Sam walked down with her, carrying vast sun umbrellas,

  beach balls and towels, and they spread themselves out

  in luxury on the deserted sand of the little bay.

  There was a pearly mist on the water, hiding the sun,

  but there was no wind, and Kate stretched out on a

  towel, gingerly lowering herself in case her back began to

  hurt again.

  Her peeling skin was well coated with the doctor’s

  soothing lotion. She slipped sunglasses on and lay with

  her face in the shade of a multi-hued umbrella, a plastic

  air cushion under her shoulders.

  The sea murmured soothingly, flinging white-capped

  fingers upwards towards them, then falling back again in

  little ripples, leaving the sand ribbed and pale.

  Pallas was reading the life of Beethoven, Sam was

  playing chess with himself and occasionally commenting

  rudely on his own weak moves. Kate did nothing at all,

  feeling her whole body limp and relaxed in the soft air.

  She felt Pallas stiffening beside her, and looked up to

  see Jean-Paul and Marc coming down the beach.

  “You look very comfortable there,” Jean-Paul told

  Kate, lowering himself beside her, “but should you be out

  here in the sun so soon?”

  She peered up at the sky. “The sun is still hidden in

  cloud,” she pointed out. “I have to venture forth

  sometimes, you know. I can’t live in a tunnel like a

  mole.”

  He laughed and picked up her lotion. “Let me rub

  some of this into your arms before the sun comes out,

  then.”

  She had already done so, but she meekly allowed him

  to do as he pleased.

  “Your skin is so fair,"’ he murmured, his hand slowly

  stroking up to her shoulder. “It is like peaches and

  cream—I always thought that a silly expression, but now

  I know what it means.”

  Pallas leapt impatiently to her feet, sending up a

  shower of sand. “Sam, come and play beach ball!”

  Obediently, Sam closed his pocket chess game and

  followed her down the beach.

  Marc was leaning on one elbow, watching Kate and

  Jean-Paul like a cat at a mouse-hole, his grey eyes

  narrowed. She found his unmoving, unreadable gaze

  disconcerting. What was he thinking?

  Pallas and Sam were running closer to them, shouting

  as they threw the ball from one to the other. Suddenly

  the ball landed with a thu
d on Jean-Paul’s back, sending

  him sprawling over Kate. He landed, a hand on either

  side of her, almost knocking the breath out of her body,

  and they both began to laugh, after the initial shock.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jean-Paul apologised. “I hope I did not

  hurt you.”

  “Not at all,” she smiled.

  He withdrew slowly, looking down at her with a

  crooked smile. Over his shoulder Kate saw Pallas’s

  sullen face as she took back the ball. Jean-Paul was

  about to lie down again when Sam said cheerfully, “Care

  to join us, Jean-Paul? Beach ball is more fun with three.”

  Pallas turned away, her dark hair swinging as she

  tossed her head, as though to emphasise her indifference

  as to whether Jean-Paul played or not.

  He hesitated, his face uncertain. Kate smiled at him,

  “Yes, do play—I mustn’t because of my back. I think I’ll

  go to sleep for a while.”

  He stood up and slowly joined the other two. Pallas

  flung the ball at him, very hard, and it hit him in the

  stomach. Kate knew that Pallas had done it deliberately

  and felt like shaking the girl. But Jean-Paul

  straightened, looking steadily at her, and threw the ball

  back without a word.

  Kate pulled her straw hat over her face and let her

  body relax. The sound of the sea, the balmy air, made her

  drowsy. Vaguely she heard the high voices of the ball

  players drifting away. The sea murmured on, gulls cried

  overhead and the sun came out mildly, caressing her

  skin. Behind her closed lids a warm orange flood of light

  seemed to focus, spreading through her like wine. She

  was lazy and content. Even the silent presence of Marc

  seemed distant.

  Then she heard a movement beside her. Sand

  scattered over her bare legs. She opened her eyes and

  saw Marc, lying on one elbow still, but casually ladling

  handfuls of sand over her, like a child.

  “What are you doing?” she asked resentfully, lifting

  her leg so that the sand fell away.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, with an odd

  emphasis.

  “Trying to sleep,” she snapped. Was it impossible to

  stand still in any relationship? she wondered. One

  always seemed to move either forward or back, certainly

  in a friendship with the opposite sex. With Marc she

  moved between hostility and attraction. Were the two

  interchangeable? Like two sides of one coin? Today,

  again, she did not like him.

  “Last night,” he said conversationally, “I had a rather

  startling discussion with Jean-Paul.”

  Kate closed her eyes, straightening her leg again.

  “Oh?” She tried to sound bored, even indifferent.

  “He was unofficially betrothed to Pallas,” Marc said

  softly, “but last night he told me he had changed his

  mind.”

  “Really?” Kate yawned, flapping her hand over her

  mouth in a lazy gesture, her body stretching pleasantly

  with the movement. “Well,” she went on, “Pallas is

  rather young for a man like Jean-Paul, I suppose.”

  Marc moved like a spring uncoiling, a hand on each

  side of her, bending to whisper forcefully. “What do you

  know of a man like Jean-Paul—you only met him

  yesterday!”

  She could not pretend to be sleepy now. She lay

  staring up at him with a suddenly dry mouth. He was

  very close to her, his dark face tense and menacing, the

  strong muscles in his brown shoulders rippling as he

  pressed his hands down on the sand. He looked very

  handsome, very dangerous, and more attractive than she

  could bear.

  “What does any woman know of any man she meets?”

  she countered warily, grateful for the sun glasses which

  helped mask her expression. “I just made a snap

  judgement, I suppose.”

  “You walked in the garden with him for an hour,” he

  said bitingly. “I saw you from my office window. He

  kissed your hands. Rather fast work on his part—he was

  never the wolf type. You must have given him a lot of

  encouragement.”

  He was furious because Jean-Paul had broken his

  engagement to Pallas, she thought. But why take it out

  on me? He’s looking for a scapegoat, but I’m not a

  volunteer.

  Aloud, she said, “He is a Frenchman, isn’t he? They

  kiss hands to be polite.”

  “He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since he

  arrived,” Marc said tightly, his lips curling at the edges.

  “Is that my fault?” she retorted. “What am I supposed

  to do? Hang out a sign saying don’t look?”

  “You put up one saying don’t touch,” he sneered.

  “That was only for your benefit,” she flung, suddenly

  too angry to care, and then realised, with a sinking

  heart, that she had gone too far, and made him blazingly

  angry.

  His dark face tightened as though she had struck him.

  He glared down at her, eyes glittering like points of steel,

  and his mouth swooped, closing on hers savagely, his

  hands gripping her sore shoulders.

  For a second her heart seemed to stop, then it

  thundered into life again, pounding in her ears. Her eyes

  seemed darkened and aching. Her fingers curled

  imploringly, held rigid at her sides, as she fought the

  impulse to reach up and touch him.

  Whatever happened, she must not let him guess what

  that cruel, punishing kiss had done to her. As he drew

  away, breathing hard, she kept her eyes and lips tightly

  closed. After a moment she heard him walking away, his

  feet crunching on the sand.

  Tears began to trickle down her face. So now she

  knew—what she had always known since their first

  meeting. She loved him. But now she had been forced, by

  her body’s treachery, to admit it to herself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When the others came back she pretended to be asleep, and

  let them wake her, so that her silence could be put down to

  the drowsiness of someone suddenly dragged back to a

  wakeful condition. She trailed after them, back to the villa,

  dreading the first meeting with Marc, but when they

  arrived they found Sophia busily supervising the laying of

  the table, and she told them that Marc had taken Marie-

  Louise to Epilison to visit Pyrakis.

  Kate felt a pang of unbearable jealousy at the news. She

  knew that Marc had only been reacting angrily, when he

  kissed her, to what he believed to be her interference

  between Pallas and Jean-Paul. The furious glitter of his

  eyes had confirmed that. But she stupidly felt hurt that he

  should take Marie-Louise to see Pyrakis so soon after

  taking her there.

  She went up to change for lunch and chose a plain green

  linen dress which somehow expressed her depressed mood.

  After lunch she played cards with Helene Lillitos, who

  was bored. She found the other woman quite pleasant, out

  of the company of Marie-Louise. Helene seemed to make an

&
nbsp; effort to be polite to her. Kate had noticed that she always

  wore black or lavender, and wondered if she were still

  mourning for her husband. But Paul Lillitos had died

  several years ago, so perhaps it was just that Helene knew

  that the sombre colours suited her.

  Occasionally, Helene’s slight French accent was tinged

  with an American twang, which reminded Kate of her usual

  residence in the United States.

  She asked Helene where she lived when she was in

  America, and Helene explained that she had two homes.

  “An apartment in New York and a little place in the hills

  in California. New York used to be an exciting place, but it

  is becoming a nightmare. One hardly likes to go out after

  dark, and never goes out alone.” She shuddered. “So many

  of my friends have been mugged—you know?—robbed in the

  street. It is incredible that such things happen in such a

  civilised city.”

  Kate asked her about California, and Helene went on to

  describe her other home. “In the spring and autumn it is

  beautiful, but it is too hot in summer.”

  “The Americans call autumn the fall, don’t they?” Kate

  asked.

  Helene laughed. “Yes, the fall.”

  “It is such a descriptive word,” said Kate. “It conjures up

  falling leaves, the dying summer, everything.”

  Helene looked at her carefully. “You like words?” Then

  she smiled. “Of course, you are a schoolteacher.”

  Kate flushed at the slight condescension of the words. “I

  teach music, not English literature,” she said, a little more

  sharply than she meant.

  Helene said quickly, “I am sorry, I did not mean to offend

  you.”

  Kate relaxed. “I shouldn’t have snapped,” she apologised

  in her turn.

  Marc and Marie-Louise returned just before dinner. Kate

  saw them walking up towards the villa, holding hands and

  talking with animation, and she had to fight down a wild

  impulse to run away.

  She was sitting beside Sam on the verandah, drinking an

  aperitif, and wearing her white voile dress. The weather

  had been rather sultry that afternoon. When the early

  morning mist lifted the sun was revealed, like a brass coin,

  in the sky, and as the day wore on the heat grew more and

  more oppressive.

  Sophia darkly prophesied a thunderstorm that night, and

  Kate was inclined to agree with her. The lowering sky, the

  humidity, seemed to make one inevitable. Something of the