by Jessica Ayre
Lynda stepped back and covered herself with her arms.
'What do you want?' She steeled herself against him, uttering the words, coldly, distinctly.
'I didn't think you'd be alone,' he said huskily, almost apologetically. She could see the flush in his cheeks, his clenched fists, and felt herself irresistibly drawn by the sheer animal magnetism of his presence.
But she managed to reply in the same cold tone, 'What did you think?'
'I thought… Oh, Lynda!' He moved swiftly towards her, and one long stride was enough to bring them face to face. She stepped back, but he caught her in a rough embrace and crushed her to him. She could feel the tautness of his muscles, the rise and fall of his chest through his silk shirt as he moulded her body against his.
'Lynda, Lynda,' he murmured, burying his face in her hair. Then he covered her in kisses—eyes, nose, cheeks and with growing urgency her lips. She swooned in the circle of his arms, enveloped by his rugged odour, the rough wool on her bare arms. He was trembling as he lifted her on to the bed and pressed his hard body against hers.
Lynda felt a molten liquid rising through her, suffusing her limbs, her breasts with a scorching warmth. She raised her arms to stroke the silk of his shirt beneath his jacket, letting her hands trace the tensed muscles of his back.
Then suddenly, with an enormous effort of the will, she began to struggle, to resist him, to push him away. She jerked her face away from his lips, pounding him on the back with her fists. He drew away and rose to a sitting position, taking her hand in his, but she pulled it away.
'What is it, Lynda?' He looked into her eyes with a troubled warmth that almost melted her. But she forced herself to resist him.
'I'm not in the habit of going to bed with men whom I hardly know; men who are engaged to other women.' She said it slowly, letting each word take on its distinct weight.
His eyes reverted to the steely iciness she had known in the past. He stood up abruptly and looked down on her from his full height.
'And I'm not in the habit of pressing my attentions on women who believe what they read in gossip columns. Nor,' he emphasised it, 'do I habitually pursue women who lead on each and every corner.' With that he strode out of the room, banging the door behind him.
Lynda turned over on her stomach and felt the tears pouring out of her eyes. Afraid that he might hear her from the room next door, she muffled her sobs into her pillow, and only when the sky had lightened did she at last fall asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
A light knock at the door a few hours later was enough to wake Lynda from her troubled sleep. She was immediately overcome by a sense of boundless humiliation. How could she have allowed herself to have been swayed even momentarily by Paul? The urgent warmth of his embrace came back to her, making her heart beat loudly. She closed her eyes in a half swoon, only to be roused by the repeated knocking. She stilled her quivering body.
'Who is it?'
'Williams, Miss Harrow. I've brought you some tea.'
Lynda crawled more deeply into the blankets. 'Come in.'
He placed a tray on the bedside table. 'Sorry to have to wake you, miss, but Mr Overton left instructions that you would be leaving early.'
She mumbled her thanks. Williams closed the door quietly behind him and she reached to pour herself a cup of the hot liquid. Her mouth felt dry and her head throbbed painfully.
As she drank the tea down a resolution formed itself in her mind. She would give her notice to Dunlop Associates tomorrow. Far better not to have to see Paul any more. The sound of a woman's laughter from the room next door strengthened her conviction. 'Treacherous rat,' she said out loud. 'We're all replaceable. A, B, C, or D will do.' She could feel herself convulsed by a pang of jealousy, a sharp stab which cut right through her. 'Treacherous rat,' she said again, almost wishing he would hear her. 'But at least I didn't succumb to your manifest charms,' she added to herself, not sure that her defiance wasn't tinged with regret.
Lynda dressed quickly in her own clothes and tossed the new garments carelessly into her bag, thinking she would do as well to leave them behind. She hoped Shaw was still asleep, that she could leave the house and get into the car unnoticed. There would only be Paul to confront on, the drive back to London. After that she could put this whole ordeal behind her.
She tiptoed lightly down the stairs. At the bottom, she made out Paul's broad back. Her legs seemed to give out beneath her. She clung for support to the banister. Paul turned and seeing her came to take her bag. He made no sign of greeting, simply glanced at her with a hard glint in his eye. He looked haggard, the planes of his face more jagged than ever, dark circles under his eyes.
'I've said our goodbyes. Unless you want some breakfast, we can go now.'
She shook her head, relieved that she wouldn't have to face anyone.
They walked silently to the car, and Lynda braced herself for what she must make instantly clear. It would be easiest while he was driving; she wouldn't have to look at him that way.
As the car pulled on to the main road, Paul reached to switch on the radio. She stopped him.
'I'd just like to say something first—' She paused with the effort of removing the tears from her voice.
He didn't help her out.
'I'm going to submit my resignation tomorrow.' She waited for his response. He made none. 'I can't work under these conditions… in this situation… with you.' She stumbled over the words, searching for the right ones. Still he said nothing, and she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. He looked pale, impassive, but his hands gripped the steering wheel with a rigour which brought blood to his knuckles.
Suddenly he swerved the car into a layby and jammed on the brakes. He turned to her, an angry scowl on his face.
'You are most certainly not going to resign now,' he said menacingly. She moved as far away from him as possible, frightened at his anger. 'Why, I listened to Rees for an hour last night, singing your praises. It seems you've convinced him that the project should be a large one. If you go now, he'll make one hell of a fuss.' He paused. 'I don't know what you did to him, whether he was talking out of sense or out of lust… though I can imagine,' he disrobed her coldly with his eyes. 'But now you're in, whether you like it or not. And whether I like it or not,' he added as an afterthought.
Lynda bridled at his imperious tone, at his iciness.
'I'm free to resign if I choose,' she said bitterly. 'You can find someone else to sell your wares.'
He gripped her arm with a savage strength and shook her hard. Then, all colour draining out of his face, he let go and made a visible effort at restraining his temper. His voice when it sounded again was husky.
'Lynda, will you please try to behave responsibly, professionally. This project could make your name. There'd be no lack of opportunities afterwards.' He paused. 'And it has nothing to do with what went on between us yesterday. If you like, I'll even attempt to apologise for that… though you did lead me on, you know.' There was a bitter edge to his voice and she began to protest. But he stopped her and said simply, gently, 'I am sorry.' She met his eyes and turned away, unable to bear their pressure.
He shrugged his shoulders and started the car. They drove back without exchanging another word, the music encasing their separate silences, until Paul pulled up in front of her door. He got out, opened the boot to take out her bag, then turned to her.
'Well?' There was an entreaty beneath his abruptness.
'Well, I'll do it—the drawings at least. But don't expect me to do any more of your dirty work!' She flung the words at him, simultaneously unzipped her bag and hurled dress and suit in his face. 'I won't be needing these any more.' And she rushed towards her door, leaving him standing there with a look of utter amazement on his face.
Lynda spent the afternoon in a stupor, dozing, pottering about the flat, not entirely aware of her movements or of the passage of time. She would find herself holding a dust-cloth, not remembering what she had meant to do with it
. Nor was she aware of Tricia's absence until she heard a key turning in the lock. Then she mustered her attention and fixed a smile on her face. Tricia mustn't see her in this state; there would be too many questions to answer.
As Tricia walked in, Lynda offered a jaunty hello.
'Have a good time?' Tricia asked.
'Amazing.'
'Where did you go exactly?'
Lynda remembered that in her note to Tricia she had merely said that she was off with Paul for a day of work. So now she filled in, describing the house, Northrop Shaw, Stanford Rees, the sumptuous food.
She noticed that Tricia was only listening with half an ear.
'You look tired, Tricia,' she commented.
'I didn't get much sleep last night,' Tricia replied evasively. 'I think I'll go and lie down now, in fact.'
Relieved to be once more on her own, Lynda did not enquire further. She switched on the television, hoping that its stream of images would provide her with some distraction from the turmoil of her own thoughts. But there was no relief to be had from that quarter.
Her mind moved round and round the fact that Paul had used her, would have used her more had she not stopped him. And herself. Yet the sense of his body pressed heavily on hers was so acute that even the fleeting memory of it made her blood pound, her pulse throb so urgently that her vision was blurred.
She forced herself to focus on the television. Suddenly she recognised a half-familiar face. It was like an omen confirming her worst fears. There on the screen, gyrating silk-clad hips to the rhythm of a hard rock band, stood Vanessa Tarn. Microphone pressed close to ferociously red lips, she panted the single word, 'Desire, desire, desire…'
Then the music stopped and she bowed low to an invisible audience, letting her mass of electric curls sweep the floor.
Lynda sat transfixed. A cold hand seemed to be choking her, stopping her breath, paralysing her into immobility. She wanted to erase the image from the screen, but she couldn't move. Instead she watched. Watched Vanessa sink seductively into a low chair and turn luminous eyes up to the well-known television interviewer. Yes, she breathed throatily, that was one of the numbers from the new musical she was starring in. Yes, it was opening in the West End next week.
Lynda heard Tricia come up behind her.
'That vamp again! Don't know how an intelligent man like Paul Overton can stand for it. It makes me despair.'
Lynda didn't trust herself to reply.
'Come on, let's get some food before she cuts my appetite.' Tricia moved towards the kitchen and Lynda made herself turn the television off. Just as image and sound flickered away, she overheard the interviewer questioning Vanessa about her engagement to Paul Overton.
Lynda rushed blindly into the kitchen. Her hands trembled as she sliced some bread and cheese. Only the prolonged effort of chewing, of forcing herself to make comments to Tricia, began to still her nerves a little.
As she snuggled into her cool sheets that evening, Lynda resolved that she would put Paul out of her mind, finish the drawings quickly, and then look around for a new job.
Monday morning dawned grey and drizzly. Lynda wished that she could ring in to say that she would be working at home, but she had left her materials in the office. At the back of her mind, she realised, lay a desire to avoid Paul as much as possible. Still, it couldn't be helped today. She pulled on her old comfortable jeans and a warm sweater, and took her raincoat out of the wardrobe. Winter seemed to be closing in.
The office was almost empty when she arrived. There was no sign of Paul and she breathed a sigh of relief, settling easily into work. At about one o'clock she decided to pack up her materials and go off to a large fabric centre to do some costings. Tomorrow she could work from home. She left word with Tricia for Mr Dunlop and hurried off.
At the lift she bumped into Robert Sylvester.
'Well, well, well,' he gave her a friendly smile which belied his words, 'here comes the young beauty who stood me up and broke my heart!'
'I'm sorry, Robert, but Work called.' She flushed a little at the memory of what she had in fact been doing on Saturday evening.
When the lift doors had slid shut, Robert lifted her face up to his. 'You're looking pale, Lynda. Is anything wrong?' He sounded genuinely concerned, and the tears came rushing to her eyes. '
He put his arms around her, drew her to him, patted her back gently and murmured comfort. Lynda relaxed into his solidity, burrowing her face into his shoulder. She looked up only when the lift doors had opened.
There stood Paul Overton. He eyed them grimly, taking in the scene, and then nodded curtly to Robert. As Lynda brushed past him, he muttered with seething contempt, 'I see you're up to your tricks again.'
She was too surprised to answer and rushed away blindly.
'Slow down!' Robert caught up to her. 'Would you like my shoulder to cry on? It's available—along with lunch.'
Lynda shook her head. 'I'm all right. And I have to get on with this.' She held up her folder and braved a smile.
'At least let me give you a ride.'
She demurred. 'The fabric centre I have to get to is a good half-hour away.'
'You really do want to be on your own, don't you?'
Lynda nodded.
'Right then, chin up, young lady. I'll give you a ring during the week to see how you are.'
Lynda smiled gratefully and walked off waving. At the corner of the street she jumped on to a number twenty-four bus just as it was pulling away. She went up the curving stairway and found a seat.
For the first time since she had been in London, the top of the double-decker didn't thrill her. The city looked dismal in the sombre light: tops of umbrellas, greying brick, blackened stone. She yearned suddenly for the rolling hills and copses of home, the deep greens of the countryside. She closed her eyes for a moment in order to see it all better, but instead the image of Paul loomed before her, Paul watching her with grim contempt written all over his face.
Lynda shuddered. Yes, she had been falling for him. And it was all impossible. Work aside, he was simply using her, or would—as he used any woman he met casually. Her face burned as she remembered how she had succumbed to his embrace as if she made a habit of such encounters. She had offered almost no resistance. It was too humiliating to think about. No wonder he eyed her with contempt!
If only she could erase the pressure of his arms, the touch of his lips, the imprint of his body on hers. She must get away—finish her work and get away.
Her hair streaming, Lynda entered the fabric centre, took out her notebook and began to make the rounds. Chintzes, velvets, William Morris prints decked the walls in a variety of colours. Gradually some of the enthusiasm she had expressed to Stanford Rees began to come back to her and by the time she got home later that day, she was ready to immerse herself in the project once again.
Lynda worked flat out that week, staying up late into the nights, emerging only for food and an occasional breath of air. There was a desperation to the way she drove herself, almost as if work was the only thing which could blank out her thoughts. Her nights were dreamless. She didn't bother to answer the telephone and she told Tricia to make any necessary excuses for her.
Finally, on Friday morning, looking through the drawings and plans she had completed, the snatches of chintz and velvet pinned to the corners, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was almost all done. She allowed herself the luxury of a long bath, letting the hot water take the strain out of her shoulders.
The telephone rang just as she had finished towelling herself dry and she decided to answer it. Paul's voice sounded at the other end.
'Lynda?'
Her first impulse was to hang up.
'Lynda, are you there?'
'Yes,' she answered at last, faintly.
'I was just wondering how the work was coming on?'
'Fine. I'm almost done.'
'Can I have a look?'
'I wasn't planning on coming in today.'
&
nbsp; 'I could come to you.'
He was obviously worried about her progress. She felt like letting him stew.
'It's not terribly convenient,' she began.
'I could come at any time.'
'All right then, if you insist.'
'May I come immediately?'
'Why not? We might as well get it over with.'
She rang off without saying goodbye, irritated at his lack of confidence in her. Then she hurriedly put on her jeans and sweater, refusing to make a special effort, and went to brew some coffee. The doorbell rang before she had finished.
'He's really worried,' she thought to herself, and the idea of his discomfort brought a smile to her lips.
It disappeared as soon as she saw him. She had forgotten the sheer impact of his presence, the steely magnetism of his eyes, the mobile expressiveness of his mouth. They looked at each other for a moment in silence.
Then, by way of greeting, Paul said, 'You look worn out.'
'Hardly surprising,' Lynda replied with a hint of bitterness.
He raised a single eyebrow and muttered, 'I did try to warn you off initially, if you remember.'
'I remember only too well.' She turned on her heel, fetched the drawings and threw the whole pile down on the red lacquered table.
'Here!' She flung it at him, happy to see the flush of anger rising to his cheeks as she turned her back and went on with her coffee-making.
She sipped her coffee quietly, leaning on the kitchen counter and watching Paul covertly. His attention was wholly fixed on the drawings. That's all he cares about, she thought, a lump rising to her throat.
After what seemed an eternity, he got up and came towards the kitchen. She kept her eyes away from his, focused on her coffee cup as if it were the centre of the universe.