She was trying to think about work, but she could only think of Jake. He had exploded back into her life again, leaving her breathless and confused.
And there was still the party to face before she could start avoiding him again. She could hardly believe she was the same person who had become his lover in the green summer beauty of Windermere, three years ago.
After those two weeks of sheer perfection, when she was due home, Jake had driven her back to London, her paintings and empty sketchbooks neatly packed into the boot of his car.
Somehow things had changed from then on. Back in the bustle of the city and the daily routine, those brief weeks in the Lake District became hazy and unreal.
She no longer had Jake to herself. He had to work and he had commitments that he could not break. Because she had been so wildly in love with him, she had been jealous of those commitments. Looking back, she knew she had been very unreasonable, unable to help herself.
She remembered her first visit to his house. She met Tess and Leila there. Tess had been friendly and curious, but Leila had eyed Deborah with sullen hostility, making her position clear right from the start.
'Don't worry about Leila,' Tess had said cheerfully. It was a hot afternoon and they had been sitting on the bank of the river that ran through the garden of the house, dangling their feet in the cool clear water. 'She has terrible moods, but I'm sure she doesn't mean to be nasty.'
Secretly, Deborah had wondered. It was obvious that Leila had hated her right from the start. She did not bother to hide or deny it. Except when Jake was there. Then she had eyes only for him.
'Is she related to you?' Deborah had asked.
'She's an orphan,' Tess had revealed surprisingly. 'I think she might be a very distant relation. Jake brought her back from France to live with us. He's so kind, and Leila dotes on him now.'
Deborah had already noticed that, and although she didn't want to she'd felt the first faint stirrings of jealousy.
She had tried to like Leila, for Jake and for Tess, but she couldn't. And in the end, she had hated her; hated her dark sullen beauty and malicious tongue.
Her jealousy had driven a wedge between her and Jake, even though Leila's name hardly ever came up in conversation.
Deborah had been very young, insecure and oversensitive, hardly able to believe that she could inspire love in a hard sophisticated man like Jake.
She remembered little things that Leila said, tiny jibes, seemingly innocent double-edged remarks that got right under her skin like splinters of rotten wood. She would wake in the middle of the night, remember them, and spend hours worrying, wondering, undermined by Leila's cunning.
She had never known jealousy before, but she was experiencing its destructive powers to the full. It was blinding her thoughts and her judgment.
She was seeing another side of Jake, too. During that summer, Robert was back in London and Deborah spent a day with him. She hadn't seen him for ages because he was studying aviation at an American college.
They spent the day touring the sights of London, chatting about old times. He was kind and amusing. They had been friends since childhood, same schools, same lifestyle. Robert and his mother had lived next door to Deborah for most of her life. Before Oliver, Robert had always taken care of her, protected her from the neighbourhood bullies, never hiding his affection.
When he drove her back to her flat late that night, she did not notice the low silver car parked on the other side of the road. Robert escorted her to the front door, taking her by surprise, pulling her into his arms and kissing her passionately.
It was the first time he had ever kissed her in a sexual way and shock held her passive in his embrace.
When he finally released her, she looked up into his eyes and found an expression there that disturbed her. She hadn't guessed that he might feel any differently than her. She was fond of him, loved him like a brother, but that was all.
Her obvious shock had embarrassed him. She heard him mumbling something about 'phoning her the following day, then he was gone.
Still struggling with surprise, Deborah opened the front door and stepped inside, gasping as a hand grabbed her shoulder. She was roughly pulled round and found herself face to face with Jake, his grey eyes as cold and as dangerous as steel.
'Jake . . .' She smiled uncertainly, glad to see him.
He did not speak, merely pushed her inside and into her flat, violently kicking the door shut with his foot.
She turned to face him, still not understanding, her
mouth curved in a soft smile.
Jake's eyes narrowed, his face a cold ruthless mask. 'Where the hell have you been?' he demanded tautly.
'Out to dinner ...' she stammered, afraid of him for the first time. He was so big and powerful, his anger almost tangible.
'Who is he?' Jake bit the words out fast and clear and furious.
'Robert?' It sounded inane. She felt herself trembling, her eyes enormous as she looked at him. 'He's a friend.'
'Friend?' He threw the word back at her contemptuously, his mouth hard. She heard him swearing under his breath. He was looking at her as though he wanted to hit her, his body tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He was hard and dangerous, and her heart began to thump painfully.
'Yes, he's a friend ... I. ..'
'And dinner took until now?' He cut off her explanation mid-sentence, staring at her with violent probing eyes.
Deborah looked at her watch. It was one-thirty. She hadn't realised how late it was. 'I didn't realise. ..' She spoke unintentionally, giving herself away.
'I'd be waiting?' He took a step towards her and she shrank away terrified. 'I can believe that, you cold-hearted little bitch.'
'You're frightening me,' she whispered, shivering as though she was freezing cold.
She felt guilty even though she wasn't. Jake could see that too. He had seen Robert kissing her. The knowledge lay in every taut line of his body. He had seen it all and he believed the worst, because the guilt in her eyes kept making a liar of her.
'Nothing happened,' she whispered, staring nervously down at her feet, because her eyes, so easily read by Jake, seemed to be damning her.
'I saw him touching you,' Jake muttered through clenched teeth, as though the mere thought was unendurable.
'Don't ...' Terrified by the depth of his jealousy, the darkness in his eyes, she moved further away. 'You're frightening me,' she said again.
'I'll teach you to be really frightened if I find you with him again,' Jake said hoarsely. 'Is he your lover? Is he?'
She didn't answer, unable to say a word. He moved towards her, silent and furious, like a tiger ready for the kill, his mouth hardening as she shrank back against the wall.
His hands closed on her shoulders, their pressure bruising. He shook her until she felt loose and limp. 'Answer me,' he grated harshly. 'Is he your lover?'
Deborah swallowed on the blockage of tears in her throat, and wordlessly shook her head, her wide eyes holding his.
Jake groaned deep in his throat. She heard that groan and shuddered, then his mouth was on hers, hard and erotic, punishing, as though he didn't care that he hurt her. His hands still bruised her shoulders, the strength of his fingers possessive and ruthless, but Deborah's response was as violent and overwhelming as the blind anger that drove him.
Her lips moved under his, gentle and pleading with desire. She felt the quickening of his heart beneath her shocked fingers, and wanted him, loved him too much to protest at his furious behaviour.
As the kiss deepened, her hands slid up over his wide shoulders to tangle in the darkness of his hair, stroking greedily.
Jake shuddered, his anger dissolving in raw unconcealed hunger. His own hands left her shoulders, pulling her body against his, both arms around her. They ended up in her narrow bed, their lovemaking white hot, resdess with desperation.
It always happened that way. Jake's possessive fury, the dark streak beneath his cool charm, wo
uld surface from nowhere, if she even looked at somebody else. His obsessiveness terrified her. And she had loved him so much that it had broken her heart.
'You're mine, dammit,' he told her once. 'You belong to me. And I won't let anyone else near you. Do you understand?'
It hurt that he did not trust her after that episode with Robert. She felt as though she would never know him. She could not understand that darkness in him, the terrible jealousy that engulfed him in anger whenever she looked at another man. Perhaps it was the turbulence of his upbringing, the harshness of his life, that had produced this need to possess totally. He was so unlike any other man she had met before. He lived by his own rules, and it showed in the untamed compulsive strength of his face, in every sleek movement of his body. He defied convention and the rules by which ordinary people lived their lives. And his plays held a wisdom, a deep perception of the world around him, a knowledge of motive and thought.
Looking back, she saw that she had been far too young, barely out of school. How could she possibly have hoped to get to know, to understand, a man of the world like Jake. Surely that had been doomed from the start. Every detail of her own disillusionment was still starkly clear in her mind. She remembered creeping into his bedroom at the house, pressing her face to his pillow. How childish that seemed now. And she remembered the faint smell of perfume clinging to the pillowcases.
It rose in her throat now, choking her. A rich sickly perfume, cloying and exotic. A perfume she would never have dreamed of wearing herself.
She had not been suspicious at the time. In fact, she had forgotten all about it, until two weeks later, when she arrived unexpectedly at the house, hoping to surprise Jake.
She saw herself in slow motion, running up the stairs, imagining that he must still be in bed. It was very early and the rest of the house was deserted.
As she reached the bedroom, she heard the hissing of the shower. She pushed open the door, calling his name, the words dying on her lips as she saw Leila in his bed. Leila, with her cloudy black hair billowing over Jake's pillows, her smooth bare shoulders rising from the silk sheets.
The shower hissed on against Deborah's chaotic thoughts, as it all became painfully clear.
How stupid she was, not to have realised. Leila had been too hostile from the start. She was smiling now though, a cruel triumphant deriding smile. As though she was glad that Deborah had caught her in such a compromising position.
And the perfume, that sweet exotic scent seemed to fill the room, choking Deborah with the realisation that this affair between Leila and Jake had been going on for some time.
Suddenly her limbs had started to work again, and without a word she had turned and run like the wind down the stairs and out of the house. She had driven back to her flat far too fast and once behind the front door, she had cried her heart out.
That had been the end as far as she was concerned. She had closed in on herself, feeling as though there was something broken inside her.
Oliver had found her, late in the evening, huddled on the sofa, still crying.
Without meaning to, she told him everything.
'I don't want to see him ever again,' she had muttered hysterically against his shoulder. 'Not ever.'
'You don't have to,' Oliver had replied soothingly. 'You don't have to do anything you don't want to.'
'But if he comes round .. .'
'I'll speak to him, don't worry.'
'But I don't want him to know that I saw ...' Her voice was high, fretful.
'Leave it to me.' Oliver had stroked her hair, soothed her.
For some reason, that had been her worst fear, seeing him again. The pain had been so bad, she had wanted to die.
Jake had come round the next day. Perhaps he had been telephoning her. The telephone had rung several times during the afternoon. She had not answered it. She heard the doorbell ring and did not move. She felt numb, detached. She heard the voices downstairs as Oliver waylaid him, lying, saying she was out.
She heard the harshness, the violence in Jake's voice, and shuddered, pressing her hands to her ears.
Jake had known she was there. She felt it, heard it in his voice. Luckily Cole had been downstairs at the time, negotiating the sale of a painting from Oliver. He helped evict Jake from the house. Oliver would never have been able to do it on his own. Jake was too physically powerful, aware of his own strength.
Deborah crouched in the darkness near the door, a fist pressed to her mouth, feeling sick to her stomach.
She could hear almost every word from downstairs and her mind was filled with the image of Leila in Jake's bed.
Finally Jake left, and she could not help herself moving over to the window. She watched from behind the blinds, jumping with fright as he turned at the gate to look up at her window.
He can't see me, she thought hysterically, but he seemed to be looking straight at her, his eyes silvered with a bitter deadly anger. She watched him slide into his car, the engine roaring angrily into life, the tyres squealing in protest as he shot away. She stared out into the night and started to cry again.
Oliver came up fifteen minutes later, his face pale, nervous. He switched on the lights and made coffee for them both in her tiny kitchen, pushing aside her protests that she didn't want any.
'My God,' he said, sitting down beside her. 'He scared the wits out of me.'
Deborah was silent for a moment. 'I'm sorry.'
'I thought he was going to kill me when I told him you didn't want to see him any more. He's crazy.'
Deborah sipped her coffee without noticing what she was doing. It was dark and bitter and it burnt her tongue. 'I can't stay here,' she muttered dazedly.
Oliver looked at her, frowning. 'If you mean that, I can help. And I think you should get away, because I don't think he'll let you go easily. The man is a maniac.'
Despite all that had happened, Deborah wanted to defend Jake, but she bit back the words, angry with herself. It wasn't Oliver's fault, after all.
'How can you help?' she asked instead.
The following evening she had dinner in Oliver's flat. Cole was there. She felt embarrassed as they were introduced, hardly able to meet his eyes. But he mentioned nothing of the previous evening's events.
She liked him right away. He was kind and charming, and seeing her portfolio, he offered her a job. She had grabbed it with both hands. A week later she was in Los Angeles, Cole having sorted out all the official documentation with a minimum of fuss.
Robert was ecstatic that she was in America. His college was in San Diego, only a short plane ride from Los Angles.
He would turn up at the apartment Cole had rented for her, usually at the weekend, and by gentle and persistent persuasion, urge her to have dinner with him.
She found it difficult to refuse. She had no excuses to offer anyway. She locked away her terrible pain, slowly learning to face the world with a facade of cool amusement that betrayed nothing of her inner thoughts or feelings.
Robert was good company. He was kind and reassuring and he helped to bring her out of herself. She didn't allow him to kiss her again though. She kept him at a very safe distance, making it clear that she wanted no romantic involvement.
Until one night, out of the blue, Robert asked her to marry him. The proposal shocked her and she turned him down as gently as she possibly could, her heart aching because there was no way she could not hurt him. He loved her, could not conceal it any longer and she knew what hell unrequited love could be.
The following day, the small plane he was co-piloting on a test flight, crashed on take-off.
Robert was seriously injured, unconscious for more than twenty-four hours. Frances, his mother, flew out immediately to be at his bedside and it was she who contacted Deborah.
'He's regained consciousness, thank God,' she said on the telephone, her voice full of choking tears. 'And he's asking for you over and over again. Please come.'
The pleading quality in her voice had Deborah o
n the next available flight to San Diego.
She couldn't stop wondering if the accident was her fault, a terrible guilt seeping through her mind, even though she found out later that it was a mechanical fault, something to do with the plane, not an error of judgment.
Both Robert and Frances had been pathetically glad to see her when she arrived at the hospital, but she soon realised, to her horror, that Frances was under the impression that Deborah and Robert were engaged.
She tried to explain that it wasn't true, that she had, in fact, turned down Robert's proposal, but Frances burst into tears, terribly upset.
She learned later from the doctor that Robert was suffering from slight amnesia. He couldn't remember the crash, or the preceding forty-eight hours. It was quite usual, the doctor pointed out, when she talked to him.
'However, his improvement has been marked since your arrival, Miss Lawrence.' She had remembered those words ever since. The doctor was tall and fair, his face permanently creased with worry. His manner was calm and soothing. 'But he's still hovering between life and death. Frankly I believe you're the only reason he's hanging on.'
Deborah had stayed with Frances, comforting her as well as she could. Robert's recovery was very slow and very painful, often there was no progress at all. His amnesia remained as well.
Frances exerted pressure, and tried to persuade Deborah to marry Robert. Deborah recognised it, but couldn't blame her. Robert was her only son and they were very close.
She resisted for a while, but Frances's anxiety worried her. The older woman had shed pounds and pounds since the accident. She looked much older, her nerves shattered, her face tense as she paced around the hospital chain-smoking, despite the no-smoking signs.
Those weeks at the hospital in San Diego seemed to drag on for ever. Cole was wonderful, giving her as much time off as she needed. Jake's betrayal still burned in her mind, but there was plenty to occupy her conscious thoughts.
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