Some Sort of Spell

by Frances Roding

  She shivered, but it wasn't with fear, and when she held her arms to him, the look that darkened his eyes made her singingly aware of all her power as a woman.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her, his mouth caressing hers with a hungry pressure that made her moan softly and ache for more. She was having difficulty dragging enough air into her lungs. She both wanted to urge him to make love to her completely, and to wait, both longing for the act of completion and nervous of it. If he could make her feel like this simply by touching her... She shuddered. Sensation after sensation ran through her body, making her ache for more than the arousing stroke of his fingers, making her want him with an intensity that arched her body and made her head thrash wildly from side to side on the pillow.

  'EUiott!' His name was torn from her throat on a sob of anguish, and, as though he knew what she was feeUng, he Ufted her hands from his shoulders and drew them the full length of his body.

  'Bea, you don't know hov/ much I've ached for this!'

  She cried out beneath the fierce pressure of his kiss, and then gave herself up to it, stunned by the depth and intensity of his passion.

  The feeling that he was holding something back, not giving all of himself to her, goaded her, making

  her move provocatively against him, demanding more than he was giving.

  She felt him tense and then his eyes looked down into hers, dark with strain and need and something more primitive and dangerous.

  *Bea, you're making it impossible for me to remember this is your first time.'

  His voice shook and so did his body, the fierce thrust of it within her own suddenly wildly out of control. She clung to him, hearing him moan her name, feeling the sudden quickening of her own flesh as it responded to his male need.

  Tiny quivers of sensation built up inside her, a quivery, shivery tension that wouldn't let her go, that drove her to incite him to take her with him to that place where the boundaries of flesh and mortality exploded in a vast shimmering ball of sensation.

  The knowledge that someone was touching her woke her. She opened her eyes and stretched, tensing as she felt her body's unfamiliar stiffness.

  'It's getting late.'

  Elliott was bending over her, fully dressed. Immediately she remembered what had happened. At some point he had covered her with a quilt, she realised, grabbing hold of it and holding it protectively over her nudity.

  Now that her mind was no longer dazed by sexual desire she was cringingly aware of all that she had betrayed.

  'You and I have a lot to talk about.'

  She bit her lip, releasing it immediately when she reaUsed how tender it was.

  *I have to go to France on business for a few days, but once I get back...'

  Those weren't the words she wanted to hear, Beatrice reaUsed achingly. She wanted to be held in his arms and told that he loved her.

  Sex wasn't the same for an experienced man in his mid-thirties as it was for a twenty-seven-year-old virgin, she reflected miserably. She didn't need to tell EUiott how she felt. The very fact that they had made love at all had said it all.

  How could she have not known that she loved him? How could she have been stupid enough not to see what lay behind her own antipathy towards him? Or had she been stupid? Hadn't that antipathy been an excellent form of camouflage, a marvellous protective wall to hide behind? Now she had no camouflage, no wall. She was exposed and vulnerable... too vulnerable...

  ^Bea...'

  She felt the bed depress as Elliott sat down. His hand cupped her face, but she jerked away.

  She couldn't bear to hear him say that it had all been a mistake, that he had given in to the impulse of the moment and now regretted it. That telling her he loved her had meant nothing and that she should forget all about it.

  *rd like to get dressed.'

  She deliberately made her voice sound cold. Inside she was a mass of seething, rioting emotions, but she didn't want to hear whatever it was Elliott wanted to talk to her about because she was

  sure she wasn't going to like it. She had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book; she deserved the pain she was suffering now for being stupid enough to believe that a man like ElUott could love her. The fact that she had beheved it showed how desperate for his love she had been.

  ^Bea...'

  *We must get back. Everyone will be wondering where on earth we are.'

  Mortification filled her, but she stubbornly refused to listen to the anger she could sense hardening his voice.

  *Stop being such a little fool! We can't change what's happened.' He sounded absolutely furious.

  Beatrice felt her face go red. She wanted to scream at him that it was his fault. He had been the one to arouse her to the point where she forgot... Where she forgot that she was plain and dull, she told herself bitterly. Oh yes, ElUott was quite a magician; he had certainly worked some sort of spell on her, but it was over now. She couldn't pretend to understand why he had wanted to make love to her. It couldn't be because he loved her, no matter what he might have said. And that had been before... No such words of love had fallen from his lips after they had made love, had they?

  ^Bea...'

  *I don't want to talk about it, Elliott. Please go away and let me get dressed.'

  She heard him swear as he got off the bed, but she didn't move until she heard the door close behind him.

  It was a silent drive back to Wimbledon. Beatrice knew she was very quiet during supper, but as usual none of her family appeared to notice that there was anything wrong. At least she was spared the humiliation of anyone else knowing what had happened, she told herself.

  How many other foolish women had Elliott seduced at the house by using that same ploy? she tormented herself after supper was over.

  She was relieved when Elliott announced that he had to go out. She didn't think she could have endured to be in the same room with him for much longer. She heard him saying something to Henrietta about his trip to France. How could she go on living under the same roof with him now?

  Her thoughts swirled round and round, tormenting her, past insecurities rising to taunt her, all that she had felt in Elliott's arms forgotten as she gave in to the insidious tug of her old insecurity complex.

  Elliott couldn't possible love anyone like her; thus it followed that he had simply been amusing himself with her. She had been fool enough to fall for it, and that was an end to the matter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'Where did Elliott take you for lunch the other day? You never did tell us/

  Beatrice and Ben were alone in the small sitting-room. Beatrice was sewing buttons on the boys' shirts and Benedict had wandered in.

  She felt her skin flush as she instinctively bent protectively over her sewing.

  'Oh, he wanted to show me a house he's bought.'

  She saw Benedict frown.

  'What on earth for? You've fallen for him, haven't you?' he demanded, stunning her with his perception. 'I knew this would happen! Bea, don't let him hurt you. Oh, he's a smooth bastard, I'll grant you that, but he's just playing with you. I mean, you've only got to look at the women he's been out with.' He put his arm round her shoulder and tilted her face up to his with his other hand.

  'Oh, God, he's already hurt you, hasn't he?'

  She couldn't stop the tears from welhng and then spilhng down over her cheeks.

  'Oh, Bea, why did you let him do it? You must have known you were out of your league. You've seen the sort of women he dates. God, Bea, why did you let him get to you? You know how he feels about us as a family. I suppose he picked on you because he knows you're the most vulnerable. But I never thought you'd fall for something like that.'

  Ben shook his head sadly, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

  Beatrice was too overwhelmed by her own feelings to look at him properly or to observe the slightly calculating expression hardening his eyes.

  Ben was right, why on earth hadn't she realised the truth for herself? After al
l, she had noticed often enough how Elliott would stand and watch her family with supercilious amusement. She had known how he seemed at times almost to disUke them. Of course he would be amused by how easily he could get at them through her.

  Round and round her agitated thoughts swirled, stirring up such muddy water that she no longer knew what was real and what wasn't. Ben was right about one thing, though: she was a fool ... a fool for thinking that Elliott might actually love her.

  As though in confirmation of her thoughts, Ben added softly, *Bea, how could you let him make a fool of you Uke that? I mean, it's not as though... Well, you're just not his type, are you? You must have realised that... You must have wondered why...' He broke off in patent embarrassment, allowing the full force of his words to take effect.

  Pain ran through her Uke red-hot wires as she was forced to confront reality and see herself as others saw her. The image Ben had just held up to her was not a flattering one... But it was the real one, she thought miserably, and he was right. Of course Elliott could never really have been interested in a woman Uke her.

  ^Of course, it's different here in the family,' Ben went on comfortingly. 'We know and appreciate

  you for what you really are, but Elliott... He hastft gone to France on his own, you know,' he told her quietly. 'Look at this.'

  He unfolded the newspaper he was holding, and opened it at the gossip page. Beatrice felt the pain inside her tighten its wrenching claws as she made out the grainy picture of Elliott, a tall blonde woman clinging possessively to his side.

  That's Maria Stephens, the actress,' Ben told her unnecessarily.

  The phone rang and he went to answer it. Resolutely Beatrice refused to look again at the photograph. Ben was right, she had been a complete and utter fool.

  Suddenly she longed to get away...from her family, her home... from everything. She ached to escape, to be alone...

  Ben came back in.

  *rm sorry, I've to go out.' He hesitated awkwardly. 'You'll... you'll be OK, won't you?'

  It was as much as she could manage to nod her head.

  'I... I won't tell the others anything about this.'

  She bit down hard on her Up, ignoring the pain inflicted by her teeth.

  She heard the front door slam. She was alone. Henrietta was out shopping and she had the house to herself. And she ought to be on her way to work. She was going in later that morning because Jon wanted her to work later that evening.

  Work was the last thing she felt like, but at least it might take her mind off her problems. How could EUiott have done this to her? No, she corrected

  herself bitterly, how could she have done it to herself? She had believed him because she wanted to believe him...a pathetic apology for a real woman, a sex-starved virgin who had wanted him too badly to question her motives. It wasn't a pleasant picture, but bravely she faced up to it. It was better than admitting the real truth—that she loved him and probably had done for years without reahsing it. EUiott had realised it, though. He must have done to be sure she would be vulnerable to his Ues. That made her writhe in an agony of self-abasement that took her as far as the front door and her car.

  She really wasn't fit to drive, she admitted to herself as she pulled up in front of Jon's house. In her present state it was a miracle that she hadn't had an accident.

  She opened the heavy Victorian front door with the key that Jon had given her and made her way to the music room. For once, no sound reached her from within it.

  As she opened the door, she blinked to make sure she wasn't seeing things as she surveyed the extraordinary chaos within the room. Jon was standing by his piano rifling frantically through a pile of music. He didn't look up until she had called his name three times.

  'Bea, thank God you've arrived! The Florence contract has been brought forward and I've got to fly out there in two days' time. I'm never going to be ready in time!'

  Somehow she managed to convince him that the lost score would be found much faster if he sat down and she did the looking.

  It took her less than twenty minutes to discover it underneath a pile of discarded magazines.

  *How on earth am I going to manage in Florence without you?' Jon fretted as he thanked her. *YouVe got to come with me. We can fix you up with a ticket and sort out some accommodation ..." His eyes brightened as he warmed to the idea. 'I need you, Bea. I can't imagine how on earth I ever managed without you.'

  Florence... She would be safely out of Elliott's reach, safely away from the torment of anyone else realising what had happened. She would be... safe.

  The thought beckoned and lured her on all morning, one half of her saying that it was both impossible and irresponsible that she should go, the other yearning so strongly for the solitude and protection the thought offered that she had to stop herself from agreeing to Jon's suggestion immediately.

  Florence—escape. Both words echoed through her thoughts all day, and in the end she compromised by telling Jon that provided his agent could make suitable arrangements for her travel and lodging she would go with him.

  She could hardly believe she had behaved so impulsively, and part of her mind hoped in a way that his agent wouldn't be able to make the arrangements, but it seemed that fate was against her. Not only could he make them but he was overwhelmed with joy and reUef that she was going.

  * Jon needs someone to organise him/ he told her over the phone. He had been scared to death that the young composer would leave some vital piece of paper on the plane, or worse still forget to actually get on it. Now he could sleep easily, knowing that Jon was in Beatrice's capable hands.

  She didn't say a word at home. After all, she was escaping, and prisoners did not normally give advance warning of their intent.

  Prisoners. She tested the word, surprised by her instinctive mental use of it. Was that really how she saw herself, as a prisoner? Of whom?

  Not her family, surely?

  Well, perhaps her own guilt at her need to escape from them, she told herself, unwilling to admit the truth. There were times when she longed to escape from her responsibilities, to be free to be herself. And now that need was intensified by the greater desire to get away from Elliott. How on earth could she ever face him again?

  She would need her summer clothes for Florence. She looked at them as she laid them on her bed, suddenly irritated by the dullness of them, but they were all she had.

  Elliott rang the evening before her departure. Ben answered the phone, and when he told her who was on the line, she shook her head and told him to tell Elliott she was out. She had no idea why he wanted to talk to her, unless it was to tell her that he was bringing his blonde companion back with him.

  She was stunned by how much the thought of him with someone else hurt, and by the fact that she had lived so many adult years without being

  aware of her capacity for such pain. She felt rather like a small animal, used to the cover and darkness of night, suddenly exposed to the harshness of full sunhght—and it hurt.

  The flight to Pisa left Heathrow late in the morning. Her case was packed, her taxi was picking Jon up on the way to the airport.

  Before she left, she sat down and wrote a note to Henrietta telling her that she was going away for a few days.

  After destroying three attempts to explain just why this had been necessary, she was half-way through the fourth when the taxi arrived. Hastily signing it, she sealed the envelope and dropped it on the kitchen table.

  It was only when the taxi actually pulled out of the drive that she realised she was holding her breath, as though in fear of one of her family suddenly appearing to stop her from leaving.

  The flight to Pisa was relatively uneventful, apart from Jon having to be reassured several times that they had not left any vital piece of paper behind them in London.

  They were met at the airport by an expensive chauffeur-driven car which drove them on to Florence where they were taken to an equally expensive but slightly crumbling hotel that echoed t
he mediaeval overtones that haunted the city as it basked in the hot summer sun.

  Jon had a suite, complete with piano, and Beatrice waited to see him comfortably settled in it before asking to be taken to her own room.

  It was off the same corridor, several doors down, a large high-ceilinged room with ornate plas-terwork and a huge bed. She had no private sitting-room, but her bedroom was equipped with a desk and more than adequate cupboard space. She also had a cavernous bathroom, with a bath with clawed feet and a rather odd-looking lion's head instead of taps.

  Unpacking didn't take her very long. Jon hadn't eaten on the plane and she ordered them both sandwiches and coffee.

  He wasn't due to meet the director of the opera company until the evening. Both of them had been invited to have dinner at the director's home, and as she siuveyed the meagre contents of her wardrobe, Beatrice acknowledged that she had nothing very elegant to wear.

  Before they had left England, Jon's agent, who had seen them off at the airport, had pushed into her hand what seemed like an enormous quantity of lire, teUing her gruffly when she tried to refuse them, ^Expenses. They live a pretty sophisticated life out there, and since you're babysitting Jon, you'll need clothes to fit the part. Jon needs a new dinner-suit as well.'

  The money was already burning a hole in her pocket, and she recognised with a faint start how long it was since she had had both the money and the leisure time to shop exclusively for herself.

  She and Jon had their sandwiches and their coffee. She ordered a taxi to take them to the Fioris', and as she went back to her own room to prepare

  for the evening she realised that so far she had not given a single thought to her family.

  Elliott, though, was a different matter. There had not been so much as a single second when he had been out of her thoughts.

  Since her only evening dress was her black velvet, she was forced to wear it, and as she and Jon descended to the very grand foyer of the hotel to wait for their taxi, she couldn't help noticing how shabbily their clothes contrasted with the elegantly dressed people thronging the entrance to the hotel. All of them were unmistakably Italian, apart from a smattering of Americans of a type far removed from the caricature tourist one normally associated with that country—women in Bill Blass and Alfonso, men in expensive suits—but even they could not match their Italian counterparts. The dinner-suit must have been invented with the Italian male in mind, thought Beatrice, watching them, and as for their female companions... She searched for an adjective to adequately describe their aura of polished chic and admitted herself defeated. It wasn't just their clothes, or their immaculately made-up faces and styled hair. It was their assurance, their innate belief in their own femininity. Not one of them wore anything even remotely identifiable with a pair of trousers, and not one of them looked as though she were not completely and absolutely in control of her own life. No careworn, dutiful, oppressed wives, these!