by Penny Jordan
‘Look, Ben, this just isn’t working,’ Paul said calmly, when Ben had ordered them to stop for the umpteenth time. ‘We’re all on edge. Sarah’s a bundle of nerves, and I must admit I feel as awkward as hell trying to make love to her with her husband looking on. I know it’s all part of an actor’s work, but this time, it’s just not working. Why don’t you close the set, and perhaps it would be better if you stood in for me,’ he suggested, shocking Sarah into sick immobility. ‘After all, from the back we’re much the same, both dark-haired, and they could always edit the rest later.’
Ben had joined them on the set, his eyes boring mercilessly into hers as Sarah tried not to let him see how she felt. ‘Would you prefer that, Sarah?’ he asked softly.
Her shudder betrayed her, and she knew she should not have let him witness it. It was bad enough enduring this with Paul whom she liked and that was all, but to endure it with Ben, who set her body on fire every time he came near her… She couldn’t do it. But Ben intended to make her do it, she had read that much in his eyes, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.
She sat shivering while the set was cleared, pretending to read her lines, but in reality trying to will herself into a state of mind that would enable her to get through the scene.
‘We’ll film it this time,’ Ben told the camera crew tersely. ‘We’ve wasted enough time on it already.’
Although he and Paul were much of a height, Ben was broader, which meant that the chain mail was that much harder to remove, Sarah thought inconsequentially as she struggled to remove it, willing herself not to think of the body underneath. Above her Ben was speaking Paul’s lines, which would later be dubbed, his eyes mirroring the anger he was supposed to feel after learning from Richard of Joanna’s marriage. Undressing Paul had not produced the same trembling anguish she was experiencing now, Sarah acknowledged, her mind beating out the words, ‘You’re not Sarah, you’re Joanna,’ the refrain thudding feverishly inside her skull as she tried to enact them.
When it came to the part where she had to allow her hands to linger on Ben’s body he had no need to manufacture his biting anger, Sarah thought distantly, all the breath shaken out of her as he grasped her tunic, soaking it, exclaiming, ‘God’s blood, boy, do you dare to caress me as though you were a woman?’
This was the cue for Sarah to reveal herself, and Ben had made sure that she had to do so in both senses of the word. A painful tattoo of resentment thudded inside her head and she managed to unfasten and remove her hose and tunic as per the script, not daring to look into Ben’s face to see how he was reacting as she released her hair and let it swirl round her shoulders in a protective cloak.
* * *
‘Joanna!’
Ben was still a first-rate actor, a tiny portion of her brain recorded as he stood up and stepped towards her, the word softened with surprise and then hardened with anger.
‘By what miracle does the Queen of Sicily deign to honour the tent of a mere knight? Or have you come that I might congratulate you on another marriage? This time my lady is more fortunate. Raymond of Toulouse is neither old nor impotent, and it is well known that my lady comes from a lusty family.’
He waited, knowing that she must come to him, touch him, and, her face pinched with tension, Sarah did, not knowing or caring if she spoke her lines right or wrong, only emerging from the shadowy corners, deep within her mind, where she had hidden when she was on the bed, pinned there by Ben’s superior weight, an anger burning up in him which seemed more real than assumed, fires burning deep within her body as his hands stroked over her skin.
Everything that she had feared about this scene rose up inside her to mock her, only her reactions were a thousand times worse than she had expected, because it wasn’t Paul who held her, Paul with whom she must re-live the agony of remembrance, but Ben; Ben who had taught her body the meaning of love, who had taken her beyond shyness and selfconsciousness to a plane where nothing mattered other than him, and who had drawn from her the performance that had briefly made them both famous, and he was going to do the same thing again; deceiving her body with his touch, until her desire for him overruled the cautions of her mind.
His mouth burned against her skin, his gritted, ‘And does my lady find my performance satisfactory? Perhaps her husband will give me some fine lands for it!’ barely touching her consciousness, although the biting tone reached deep down inside her, touching her where she could still be hurt, the lash of his scorn drawing tears of blood. Her body tensed against him, she struggled to recall her lines, vaguely aware of him touching locked muscles, stroking them into acquiescence and acceptance of his touch and weight, the storm of his anger dying away to be replaced by gentleness and then desire. And it was the gentleness that finally betrayed her. It was no use telling her aching body that it was all false; that Ben was simply playing a part, because she was already softening in response, and not just softening, but responding, Sarah recognised in mounting horror, her mind desperately trying to withstand the seduction of his touch. And then she knew!
Ben intended her to respond to him; he wanted this final humiliation, and he wouldn’t stop until he got it. Balked of humiliating her by forcing her to go through the love scene in public with Paul, he had sensed her reaction to him and was playing on it, using her vulnerability as a weapon against her, slowly breaking down her resistance, until she was a trembling, aching bundle of need lying weightless in his arms, feeling the slow scorch of his mouth and hands against her skin before the final tide of desire rushed over her and she clung helplessly, opening her eyes at his command to let him see down into the far reaches of her soul. For a moment something seemed to glimmer in his eyes, but then it was gone and he was speaking Paul’s lines, jolting her into awareness of how much she had betrayed, and some part of her that was still functioning made her responses, but her voice was a whisper devoid of tone of depth; dead like the rest of her, her body merely a physically functioning shell inside which she had quietly and totally withdrawn.
* * *
Somehow she was back in Wardrobe, and Linda and her assistants were helping her to change, Linda’s worried glances something she was aware of but too numb to question.
Outside Paul was waiting for her, dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans, frowning as he touched her icy hand. ‘Ben’s waiting for the rushes. How about a drink and then we’ll go and see them.’
‘No!’ The denial burst inside her like a small volcano, but the sound emerging from her throat was quiet and without vehemence. ‘I don’t want to see them.’
‘Sarah…’
‘Please, Paul, I don’t want to talk about it.’ Suddenly she was unutterably tired. All she wanted to do was sleep, and never ever have to wake.
‘That was some performance, according to the camera crew.’ Dale’s sneering voice raised the hairs at the back of her scalp, but she ignored him. ‘But then Ben always did know how to get a response out of you, and we both know why.’
‘Do we?’ Somehow she managed to face him.
* * *
‘Sure we do. You love him.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you still love him—after what he’s done to you today?’
‘I’m no longer capable of loving anyone,’ she told him emotionlessly. ‘Not loving, nor hating.’
‘Liar!’ Dale mocked her tauntingly. ‘You still love him, Sarah, and you always will.’
Dale was right, Sarah acknowledged tiredly. It seemed she had no pride and no matter what Ben did to her, nothing could kill her love. He had given instructions that no one was to leave the set in case they had to re-shoot, and Sarah sat alone in the canteen, toying with a cold cup of coffee, knowing that she simply could not go through the scene again.
She knew Ben had walked in even without lifting her head by the ripple of speculation running swiftly round the room.
* * *
‘Paul, Sarah, we’re doing the scene again. If you’d both get ready.’
Sarah lifted her head, her e
yes dark with fear and pain, noticing vaguely that Ben’s hair was untidy as though he had raked angry fingers through it and that his mouth was circled by a taut white line which presaged a savage outburst of anger.
‘I won’t do it!’ Was that really her own voice, so strained and husky? Most of the crew and cast had left the restaurant, drifting back to the set, only Gina and Dale lingering, watching.
‘Sarah…’ That was Paul, and Sarah recognised the note of concern and warning.
‘Poor Sarah!’ That was Dale, his voice dripping pseudo-sympathy with every malice-tipped word. ‘Of course you know why she hates doing love scenes so much, don’t you, Ben? It’s because the poor thing’s so desperately in love with you. That wasn’t acting when we filmed Shakespeare, and…’
Sarah couldn’t listen to any more. She turned and ran, her feet skimming the floor, Ben’s voice sharply calling her name failing to halt her, only adding to her panic. Ben’s car stood in the lot and she slid into it, reaching for the ignition key, shivering as she saw Ben emerge from the canteen and search for her, his head turning sharply as he heard the engine fire. Dale was behind him and Sarah saw him put his hand on Ben’s arm, and Ben start to shake it off, before stopping. No doubt-Dale was telling him everything. It was his revenge on her because she had dared to prefer Ben, but she no longer cared. Ben knew she loved him, knew of her stupidity, and she felt more naked than she had done when she stood before him on the set and felt him scrutinise her body.
The car had automatic transmission and Sarah had travelled the road to the studio often enough to know the way. She couldn’t stay in America any longer now, if Ben wanted to re-film the scene he would have to find another actress. The un-alleviated stress of being so close to him was driving her out of her mind—almost literally, she thought grimly. Any more of this agonising torment and tension and she could well end up in a mental hospital.
She realised she had reached the house and stopping the car jumped out. Her passport, she thought feverishly, she needed her passport. It was Margarita and Ramón’s day off and the house was silent, but not locked. She went straight to Ben’s study, opening drawers, searching through them, panic making her clumsy, every movement impelled by a growing sense of urgency. Where was it? Did Ben have a secret safe? Could he have left it at the studio? No, it must be here somewhere… She renewed her assault upon the desk drawers.
‘Sarah…!’
She stiffened. Ben had followed her. She could hear his footsteps in the hall, measured and firm. Her heart thudded suffocatingly, the study was suddenly too confining.
‘Sarah, where are you?’ She heard him move to the door, watching the handle depress with a horrified fascination before realising she could escape through the patio. The glass door jammed and she tugged at it frenziedly, hearing Ben enter the room behind her, his swift curse bitten off as he saw her. For a second neither of them moved and then Ben glanced at his desk, his jaw clenching in anger as he took a step towards her.
The patio door moved smoothly under her fingers and Sarah was running, her heart thudding frantically against her ribs, knowing Ben wasn’t far behind her, careless of which direction she ran in, until Ben’s voice made her tense and swing round, trying to get her bearings, shocked to discover that he was less than a yard away; close enough almost to reach out his hand and…
‘No!’ The vehement denial was choked out of her throat and she stepped back instinctively in the same moment that Ben moved, his harsh, ‘Sarah, for God’s sake, the pool!’ ringing numbly in her ears as she slipped and fell backwards through space and then down, down into the embrace of the life-stealing water.
CHAPTER TEN
‘YOU crazy little fool, didn’t you hear me shout?’ They were standing by the poolside, Sarah shivering and shaking with reaction and shock, dimly aware that Ben had followed her into the pool and dragged her out, his chest rising and falling heavily with the effort of doing so, his hands warm against the cold skin of her waist, chilled by her shock and her soaking clothes.
‘It’s no good, Ben, I won’t do that scene again.’ Her voice was ragged with pain, her throat stinging from the water she had swallowed, her hands going up to his chest to push him away, her fingers curling tightly into her palms as he refused to release her, her small fists flailing impotently against his chest.
‘Sarah darling, please don’t!’
There in the warm huskiness of his voice; the quiet despair and pain underlying the softly spoken words was all she had longed to hear for so many barren years when they had been apart, and Sarah finally knew that her reason must have deserted her. Ben would never speak to her like that! Tears of exhaustion and defeat flooded her eyes. What was he trying to do to her now? Was this some new form of torture his Machiavellian brain had devised? She couldn’t endure it!
‘All right, all right, it’s all true,’ she moaned feverishly, ‘I do love you—I always did. There was never anyone but you, even when Dale told me about your bet. I should have hated and despised you for that, but I couldn’t.’
If she had expected him to deny it she had misjudged him. There was silence and then a pitying, ‘Oh, Sarah!’ and the pressure of his hands moved from her waist to her back, holding her against him, allowing her to draw strength from his body.
‘I can’t film that scene again, Ben…’ Her voice started to rise hysterically. ‘I can’t… I can’t!’
‘Shush now, it’s all right. Let’s get you dry.’ She was in his arms, her hair curling damply over his arm, her eyes closing as she felt the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her cheek, only surely it was slightly unsteady, perhaps because of her weight. Exhausted by her emotional storm, she was barely aware of being carried into Ben’s room until he opened his bathroom door and slid her to her feet, the hands that had held her in his arms quickly stripping off her wet clothes, ignoring her feeble protests, his ministrations not stopping until she was wrapped in a thick fluffy towel. Picking her up again, Ben opened the door, carried her across to his bed and placed her on it, the concern she saw in his eyes making her heartbeats thud.
‘Dale was never my lover.’
Now why had she told him that? Her face flamed. What possible interest could it be to Ben who had shared her bed? The downward flick of his lashes so that she could not see his eyes confirmed her thoughts, his slow, ‘I know,’ startling her into forgetting her despair long enough to stare up at him.
* * *
‘You do? But…’
‘Let me get these wet things off and then we’ll talk.’
He was gone about five minutes, returning wearing a navy towelling robe, his legs and feet bare beneath the hem, his hair ruffled as though it had been towelled.
‘Your hair is soaking,’ he told her, reaching out a hand to touch it. ‘I’ll get a towel.’
He came back and sat on the bed behind her, rubbing briskly at her damp hair, much as though she were a child, then combing gently through its damp length, the gentle tug of the comb and the warm pressure of his hand on her shoulder causing fresh emotions to flare. Dear God, would she never be free of this? Sarah wondered helplessly. Would she always be as vulnerable to his touch as she was now, or would the years to come bring some measure of peace, of indifference? She could only pray that it might be so.
‘I’ve decided to change your love scene with Paul back to its original form.’
He was still sitting behind her, and short of twisting round to look into his face, Sarah had no way of knowing how he felt. She knew she should have felt relief, but somehow she was incapable of feeling any emotion, only a vast, empty nothingness, through which she managed to murmur a dull, ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re thanking me?’ She was twisted round in his arms, her vulnerable emotions subjected to the fierce scrutiny of his glance, his fingers tightening almost painfully on her upper arms. ‘Dear God, Sarah!’ He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, the dark lashes lying like twin fans. ‘Dear God, Sarah, how you shame me!�
�� His eyes opened, his index finger tracing the shape of her lips, his forehead creasing in a frown as they trembled. ‘You must believe me. If I’d had any idea how you felt, I’d never have forced you into that scene.’
‘I swore I’d never do another one after Shakespeare,’ Sarah told him huskily, feeling that his apology deserved some response. ‘I knew then that what I was doing wasn’t acting, and I hated it when my… my performance was acclaimed. If it hadn’t been with you… but then you knew that, didn’t you?’ she asked dully. ‘You’d guessed how I felt about you before Dale said anything, otherwise you’d never have known how much it would torture me to have to do that scene with you today.’
She couldn’t look at him, although she heard the small explosive sound of the expletive started and then caught back as her chin was gripped and her face turned up to his. ‘You thought that?’ Ben sounded bitterly incredulous. ‘You thought I was callously tormenting you?’ He shook his head as though unable to believe what he had heard. ‘No, Sarah, no! Never that. We’ll re-film that scene as it was meant to be, and I promise you no one will ever see today’s filming.’
‘You saw it,’ Sarah said bitterly. ‘What will you do with it? Destroy it?’
The look she saw in his eyes made her shudder with sickness. ‘You won’t destroy it?’ she whispered incredulously. ‘You’ll keep it. You’d do that to me, knowing…’
* * *
His hand curled round her jaw, forcing her face upwards. ‘Knowing what, Sarah?’ he asked softly. ‘That all that you feel for me is irrevocably shown on that piece of film?’
Reaction jolted through her, her inarticulate protest as she fought against the prison of his arms lost against the thickness of his robe as she tried to break free, withdrawing like a child in pain when her hand inadvertently touched his skin.
‘Would you like to see it?’
‘No!’ Her cry was pure terror, and she felt herself falling into blackness, falling, falling until there was nothing but a deep pit of terror.