by Penny Jordan
‘Tell me again that when I hold you you pretend I’m Dale?’ he murmured tauntingly. ‘You might be able to persuade your heart and mind to reject me, Sarah, but your body feels differently,’ and as though to emphasise the validity of his claim his hand moved slowly over her, stroking upwards over the curve of her hip and the narrowness of her waist coming to rest against the aching curve of her breast, his thumb stretching the fine fabric of her blouse until the betraying arousal of her nipple was plainly visible through the thin cloth. With a smile of triumph Ben let her go, returning to the Range Rover to remove their cases.
Following him round to the back, as they turned a corner, Sarah caught her first glimpse of his house. The land rose sharply, sheltering the small bay, and halfway up it on what appeared to be a plateau was Ben’s’ house. Steps led up to it, and the hillside had been planted with a variety of ground-hugging plants, many of which were in bloom. Two tall cypresses guarded the tall grilled gate at the top of the steps. Sarah was out of breath from climbing them, but Ben, who had their cases, seemed unaffected by the climb. She stood aside as he unlocked the gate, and studied the stone wall which ran in either direction away from it.
‘It keeps out unwanted visitors,’ Ben drawled, following her glance. ‘I like my privacy.’
As she stepped through the gate, Sarah couldn’t repress a small gasp of delight. She was in a courtyard-style garden, flagged and sunny, a fountain tinkling melodically somewhere unseen, the corners shadowed with trees, green and restful. In front of her patio doors opened out on to the courtyard, and looking up Sarah saw another flight of steps leading up to what was obviously one of the bedrooms, ending on an attractive balcony. The balcony boasted a table and chairs. ‘I like to breakfast there,’ Ben told her, glancing upwards, then taking her arm and leading her through another archway into what she supposed must be the garden proper with neatly tended lawns, and roses which sprawled lavishly against the stone walls.
The house itself was long and low, apparently built in an ‘E’ shape, to take advantage of the lie of the land and get the maximum views, Ben told her when she remarked on it, hurrying her along so that she had barely time to glimpse into the rooms through the windows they passed. The middle section of the ‘E’ was a huge garden room, and Sarah was still gazing at this when they rounded the corner and she saw the graceful lines of the pool and its surrounding patio. Then they were past it and turning to walk down the side of the house to what she had thought to be the back but was, she realised, the front, complete with curling drive. Puzzled, she stared at it, wondering why Ben hadn’t driven straight up, and humour touched his mouth as he watched and read her mind. ‘It looks very impressive, but it doesn’t go anywhere,’ he explained at last. ‘This house was built for a would-be millionaire who went broke before it was finished. The minute I saw it I knew it was exactly what I wanted. Californians are rather fonder of driving than they are of walking.’
‘So you bought it to preserve your solitude?’
As a busy director, Sarah couldn’t feel that he would have much time alone, but she didn’t comment, but followed him into an oval hall from which a white staircase curved graciously upwards. The hall floor was tiled in marble, the walls a soft shimmering green. As she looked she heard footsteps and a plump Mexican woman appeared, beaming at Ben, then looking at Sarah.
‘Margarita, this is my wife. Sarah, meet Margarita, my housekeeper. Between them she and Ramón, her husband, look after my home.’
Margarita grinned. ‘Your wife, huh?’ she announced with an American twang. ‘Perhaps there won’t be so many nights spent working in your study now, eh?’
Ben shook his head, and murmured something in Spanish to which the other woman replied, laughing and looking sideways at Sarah. ‘I’ll go and fix you both something to eat,’ she told them. ‘Ramón is collecting the groceries. He’ll attend to the bags when he gets back.’
‘What was she laughing about?’ Sarah demanded, hot-cheeked, when Margarita had disappeared. She had always been sensitive about being laughed at, especially when she didn’t know why.
‘The fact that I’ve told her we’ll be having separate rooms. I do tend to work a lot at night, and I told her I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘To which she replied?’ Sarah demanded, not knowing whether to be glad or disappointed about what he had just said.
‘Merely that as my woman you’d rather be disturbed than left to lie in a cold bed. Her words, not mine,’ he added with a dismissive shrug. ‘I could have told her that you’ve got your love to keep you warm, but somehow I don’t think she’d have understood.’
They ate in silence, in an attractive room overlooking the gardens, Sarah barely able to do more than toy with the delicious cold soup Margarita had served. Ben had showered and changed before coming down to lunch, and his hair was still damp, his body tautly muscular in the thin lightweight grey suit he was wearing. To eat he had discarded his jacket and the silk of his shirt clung lovingly to his body, her awareness of him so intense that she was oblivious to everything else. It took a real effort of will to drag her eyes away from him and concentrate on her meal, and she didn’t realise how tense she had become until Ben pushed back his chair, the scraping sound rasping along her raw nerves.
‘I’m going to the studio. You look tired,’ he added curtly. ‘Try and have a sleep—you’re filming in the morning.’
‘When will you be back?’ Her voice was stilted and she bit her lip, vexed at her folly, when he raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting mockingly.
‘How very wifely you sound! I’ll have to respond in like manner, won’t I?’ And then he was bending over her, her nostrils suddenly full of the arousing scents of his body, his damp hair brushing against her cheek as his fingers captured her jaw and his mouth touched hers, lightly tormenting, making her long to reach up and hold his mouth against her, her body aching for him to want her. ‘In answer to your question,’ he murmured when he released her lips, ‘I don’t know, but don’t wait dinner—and don’t wait up, unless of course you’re prepared to take the consequences.’
He was gone before Sarah could speak, leaving her bemused and shaken. What had his last words meant? That he still wanted her? If she did wait up for him would he take her in his arms and carry her up that curving flight of stairs, and then make love to her as her feverish body ached for him to make love? But for how long would a purely physical act satisfy her starving senses? Oh, initially perhaps it would suffice, but later, when her heart ached to hear words of love; when her soul cried out for more communication than that offered by his body, how would she feel then?
In the end there was no decision to make. She went upstairs, intending merely to lie down for half an hour, but it was dark when she eventually awoke from a deep sleep to discover that someone had thrown a cover over her naked body and that the clock beside her bed showed just gone two.
Beside her was the towel in which she had wrapped herself after her shower. She remembered walking into her room and sitting down on the bed, intending to dry her hair. She must have fallen asleep then. No doubt Margarita had found her when she came to ask what she wanted for dinner. Had Ben returned? The house was in silence. Or was it? Sarah frowned and slid out of bed, opening her door, her ears straining for the familiar sound, her face relaxing when she heard it. Somewhere Ben was typing; she recognised the rattling staccato sound. What on earth was he working on so late into the night? Reminding herself that he was hardly likely to tell her, she set the alarm and climbed back into bed.
When the alarm went off at four she was glad of her extra hours of sleep. Showering quickly, drying herself and putting on fresh underwear, she set to work on her hair, the hair-dryer drowning out the click of her bedroom door, her first intimation that she wasn’t alone coming when she glanced in the mirror and saw Ben standing behind her, carrying a tray.
‘Breakfast,’ he told her, putting it down on a small table. ‘Sleep all right?’
She
didn’t know why, but the look on his face made her colour deeply, wishing she was wearing more than just her brief silk bra and matching French knickers.
‘Very well,’ she assured him, fighting for composure.’ He had stopped looking at her face and his eyes had dropped to her body, studying it with a cool thoroughness that disordered every pulse. ‘I fell asleep straight after my shower…’
‘I know.’
The laconic statement brought her head round, her eyes widening as they met his.
‘I came up to see if you were all right when I got in,’ he told her, answering her unspoken question. ‘Margarita was concerned because you never turned up for dinner. You were deeply asleep, wrapped in a damp towel.’
She flushed to the roots of her hair, remembering how she had woken up, knowing that Ben must have seen her like that, must indeed have been the author of her being like that.
‘You’re blushing.’ He stood up and leaned back against the door, indolently at ease, the action emphasising the taut muscles of his thighs. ‘Why? You can’t be ashamed of your body—it’s very beautiful.’
‘I’m not. It’s just that, like anyone else, I don’t like the thought of anyone… anyone…’
‘Seeing it? What a contradiction you are!’ He moved, his green gaze marking her sudden flinch. ‘You’re perfectly safe,’ he drawled with almost insulting boredom. ‘I might have said your body was beautiful, but that doesn’t mean I’m stricken by a lust to possess it.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Can you be ready in half an hour?’
Nodding, Sarah turned her attention back to the mirror and her hair, trying to blot out the disturbance caused by his appearance. Today they were filming her meeting with Alain de Courcy; her first since her marriage, and he had come to tell her that Richard had managed to regain her dowry from her brother-in-law Tancred and that she was free to leave the castle where Tancred had virtually imprisoned her and join Richard, who was en route for the Crusade.
‘Ben?’
He stopped by the door and watched her. ‘Last night I heard you typing. Surely you have a secretary who could do that sort of work?’
‘Such wifely concern? Or was Margarita right and you’re finding your bed cold and lonely? Save your concern for Dale, Sarah,’ he told her harshly. ‘Unless he pulls himself together he’s going to need it!’
* * *
They reached the studio just after half past five. Sarah went straight to Wardrobe, immersing herself in her role as she was dressed in the thin gauzy silks of her costume, her hair hidden beneath the misty draperies of her veil.
She was a woman who had been married against her will to a man she loathed; a man she could not even respect; whose vices and affairs were notorious; a man whose death should have freed her to return to her family had it not been for the machinations of his half-brother who had refused to allow her to return home and who had, moreover, stolen her dowry. But now her brother had arrived, and Richard’s fiery Plantagenet temperament would no more accept Tancred’s cupidity than did her own, and she lived hourly in expectation of seeing her brother… her favourite brother…
Silk cushions were strewn over the set, incense burning aromatically, her servants and women dressed in brilliantly hued silks, the colours all chosen to complement and emphasise her own shimmering silvered green. Offset she saw Ben nod to the cameras and her mouth went dry with tension. She was Joanna, supposedly, and yet she felt nothing, her senses too magnetised by the man watching her. How would she feel if this was her and she had suddenly discovered she had another chance of happiness with Ben? She took a deep breath, no longer afraid. A shrill clarion of trumpets announced the arrival of Richard’s envoy and she turned, smiling regally, regality giving way to disbelief and then joy as Paul strode towards her, causing muted panic and a flurry of silks among her attendants.
‘All right, that’s it.’ From the set Sarah watched Ben massage the back of his neck, and behind him someone said laconically, ‘You heard the man—can it.’
‘Sarah, that was marvellous!’ Eva praised warmly. ‘Wasn’t it, Ben?’ She hadn’t realised Ben was at her side, and shivered a little, wondering how he had moved so silently without her noticing it, when he was constantly in her thoughts.
‘Sarah always was a good actress,’ he agreed, but in a voice more underlined with contempt than praise, and she had to bite back the impulse to throw in his face that only by pretending he was Paul had she been able to invest it with emotion and desire.
It had been like that with Shakespeare. She hadn’t needed to pretend when they did their love scene; everything had been all too real.
‘You were super, sweetling!’
Why had she never noticed before how insincere Dale could be? She moved slightly as he put his arm round her. ‘What’s the matter? Oh, I get it. I’m still not forgiven for the other night, is that it?’ Out of the corner of her eye Sarah saw Ben’s face tighten and then he moved away, his glance scathing as it ripped through her defences. ‘How about having dinner with me so that I can apologise in style?’ He was talking like someone out of his own films, Sarah thought in detached contempt, unable to understand why, suddenly, she should see him like this. Had he changed, or had she?
‘No, thanks, Dale. I’m whacked.’
‘Are you?’ His eyes were glittering as they moved over her face, and just for a second it was like coming face to face with a stranger. Fear ran icily along her spine, and she had wondered why she had never noticed before the vain egotism underlying the charming exterior. ‘Or are you hoping to catch a bigger fish? You’re still in love with him, aren’t you, Sarah? That’s why you never told me you were still married. You’re wasting your time,’ he told her brutally. ‘He might want you, but he’ll never be able to bring himself to take you knowing you are my leavings.’ He said it with such a savage satisfaction that for a moment Sarah was breathless.
‘You hate him.’ She said it wonderingly, more concerned with her own discovery than his admission of it, startled when Dale responded thickly:
‘Damn you, yes! I should have been the one who got rave reviews for Shakespeare, but I didn’t—and why? Because some stupid, big-eyed kid had to go and fall for him and turn him into one of the screen’s hottest lovers. I could have killed you for that, Sarah!’ He stormed away before she could protest, leaving her feeling as though the world had suddenly turned oddly on its axis. Why had she never realised before the depth of his jealousy of Ben? That he might be jealous had simply never crossed her mind. She had trusted him… And he had protected her when Ben… Unable to bear the pressure of her thoughts, she went to get dressed, frowning when she discovered she could not find her ring. She had taken off her wedding ring for the filming, and now she stared round, wondering where it could have gone. It didn’t have sufficient commercial value for anyone to steal it, but to her its sentimental value was beyond worth. Losing it was like admitting that her marriage was a sham, a deep rending pain that made her draw in her breath on a sharply protesting ‘No!’
She spent half an hour looking for it before conceding that it was irrevocably lost, and when she emerged from her dressing room she found Ben waiting for her outside.
‘Nice piece of work today, Sarah.’ She opened her mouth, startled, as Dale suddenly appeared, nothing about his voice or mien indicative of their last encounter. ‘You should give her something a bit more meaty, Ben; a love scene, she’s always been extra good at those.’
‘We’re trying to piece together a realistic reconstruction of the facts, not film soft porn,’ Ben interceded cuttingly.
Sarah started to shiver, her voice tight with fear as she protested huskily, ‘I don’t do explicit love scenes, my agent has instructions to refuse any scripts that include them—I loathe them!’ Her voice was so vehement that neither of the two men listening could doubt that she meant what she was saying.
Dale spoke first, his smile openly triumphant as he said to Ben, ‘That puts you and me in a league all of our own, doesn’t i
t?’ Adding to Sarah, ‘Don’t forget, sweetling, the offer for tonight still stands.’
Half an hour later she saw him leaving with Gina Frey, and wondered at her own malice when she decided they were well suited to one another.
‘Jealous?’ She didn’t have to turn her head to know that Ben was taunting her. ‘You should know him well enough by now to know that if he can’t have you he’ll soon find someone else—but remember, Sarah, as long as we’re preserving this fiction of our reconciliation, I won’t have you going to him.’
Sarah ignored him, knowing it would do her no good to protest her lack of interest in Dale. She was still suffering from the shock of discovering another man behind the mask he had always worn for her; still trying to assess where her instincts and intuitions had failed her, allowing her to be deceived into thinking that his concern had all been for her. Oh, he had protected her from Ben, but only for his own ends, only because of his own jealousy. She shivered suddenly, wondering how much of that jealousy sprang from the fact that Ben had won their bet. At the time, Dale had professed disgust and shame that it had ever been initiated, but how much of that disgust and shame had been real, and how much the actor’s skilled camouflage of real feelings?