'I love Robin,' Deborah protested, staring at her. 'I mean, I've never cheated him. I don't love Alex… I don't, Judith.'
'Maybe you don't,' Judith conceded. 'But I know you, Deb. You're very attracted to him — far more than you are to Robin. When you're with Alex you're on edge the whole time, as tense as a bowstring. If he touches you, you jump. I'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to see how aware you are of him. Yet Robin can spend a whole evening alone with you in the flat and you look as calm as a nun after evensong… if you really loved Robin you would have been tempted to go to bed with him by now, but you two sit and watch television as if you've been married for years. Good lord, you're more like brother and sister than lovers!'
The accusation left Deborah speechless. She pushed away her plate, her meal uneaten. After a pause, she said lamely, 'No one can see inside a relationship. You don't know anything about how Robin and I feel.'
'That may be true,' Judith said in a gentle voice. 'I'm fond of you, Deb. I hate to think you may get hurt. But marrying someone you don't love deeply can be a painful mistake… for both of you. You must be sure about it before you decide. For Robin's sake, if not for your own.'
Deborah nervously stood up. 'You can hardly say we've rushed into anything. Robin and I know each other better than most married couples.'
'Ask yourself one question — does Robin's lovemaking excite you?' Judith persisted.
Deborah flushed. 'That's a very personal question. You may be looking for passion in your marriage, but passion fades. Real affection doesn't. I want a marriage based on affection, not on passion.'
Judith made a shrugging acceptance. 'But does Robin?' she said on a sigh.
Deborah smiled. 'Like myself, he wants his feet on the ground, not his head in the clouds.'
Judith nodded, staring at the bowl of salad. 'Maybe you're right. Maybe you and Robin are suited. I hope so.'
As Deborah made coffee she was deep in thought. It was the second time today that someone had questioned her engagement to Robin, and although she discounted everything Alex had said, automatically, knowing that his barbed remarks were based on his hurt vanity because he could not believe anyone could prefer Robin to himself, Judith's words were more disturbing. During the two years they had shared a flat, she had come to trust and like her flatmate more than any other girl she had ever known. Judith was untidy, clumsy, impulsive, but she had quick wit, intelligence and warmth, and Deborah dared not ignore her remarks.
Was there some truth in what Judith had said? She admitted to herself that she had always been aware of her own reluctant attraction to Alex. Alex had made no secret of his appreciation of her, either, his silvery eyes bluntly approving her looks. She had always felt as if the ground between them was mined. An unwary step might precipitate an explosion. But physical awareness was no basis for a serious relationship. She refused to enter into the sort of brief liaison Alex always had with women. The idea disgusted her. It had seemed only common sense to avoid him altogether.
She still felt she was right, but Judith's reference to cheating Robin worried her. If she admitted to Robin that she… her face flamed as she baulked at putting into words how she felt about Alex. If Robin ever suspected the truth, wouldn't he think she could not love him? She put her hands to her hot face. Could she love Robin while feeling as she did about Alex? The two men were as different as chalk to cheese. She admired everything about Robin, she told herself. She trusted him, she enjoyed his company, she liked him… Despairingly, she said, in a whisper, 'I love him.' Horribly afraid that her words bore no ring of confidence. Surely it was true that love was based on knowledge, respect, admiration, rather than on violent physical awareness?
Taking the coffee in to Judith, she sank down and stared at her, her blue eyes almost desperate. 'I don't even like Alex,' she told her suddenly.
Judith made no reply, but compassion filled her face as she looked back at her.
3
After London's intermittent sunshine and showers Nice looked as unreal and beautiful us a coloured postcard; the streets lined with palm trees whose leaves were green and lustrous, the hotels dazzling white and glinting in the sun, the layered rows of houses softly washed in pastel colours, over all of the town the brilliant azure sky making it look more like a film set than anything Deborah could remember. They drove from the airport in a hired car which she had booked from London. Alex knew the route well from previous visits, his long hands capable on the wheel, his hard profile abstracted in thought.
'Your mother lives near here, doesn't she?' asked Deborah, oddly irritated by his apparent unawareness of her presence beside him in the car.
He turned his head, the dark hair brushing against the collar of the dark brown shirt he wore.
'Yes,' he agreed vaguely. The silvery eyes skimmed over her, observing the cool turquoise linen dress she wore. A faint flush rose in her face, and his mouth curved suddenly in mockery.
'My mother lives an hour's drive from here,' he said. 'She has an idyllic cottage beside the river, miles from any other habitation.' His voice held a strange note of irony, which she noted.
'Doesn't she get lonely?'
'She's a painter,' he said, as if that explained everything.
'What sort of painter?'
He shrugged, turning back to his interest in the traffic around them. 'Largely still life. She paints flowers a good deal. She does portraits occasionally, but she has no real talent for them. Her still lifes sell well though.'
Deborah was curious. 'Enough to live on?'
He laughed. 'I doubt it. She isn't that good. She takes them to an art dealer in Nice who sells them to rich tourists. They make Mother a pleasant addition to her income, that's all.'
Deborah wondered if he supported his mother financially, and imagined he must he doing so. Certainly he earned enough. The firm was largely in his possession, and although he lived well he must be very well off, she supposed. It had never occurred to her to be interested in his background. That his family had owned the firm had given him the sort of secure, moneyed background which explained his air of arrogant self-assurance.
'Do you see much of your mother?' she asked, as he spun the car into the curved drive leading to their hotel.
'My mother isn't a gregarious soul,' he said tersely.
She wondered what that meant, unclipping her safety belt and opening the car door. Alex came round and assisted her to alight, his hand beneath her elbow. A group of strolling holidaymakers passed them, laughing, their air of leisure underlining their reason for being here. Deborah looked after them enviously. The two women wore brief sun-dresses and large straw hats, their bodies smoothly tanned.
Alex glanced after them, then looked down at her wryly. 'Wish you were here on holiday?' he asked.
'The weather is wonderful,' she sighed. 'Nice must be marvellous for a honeymoon.'
Alex's hand tightened around her elbow and she made a silent face of protest, her lips parting in a wince.
He turned to greet the hotel doorman, in his smart uniform, who came hurrying to meet them.
Their rooms were side by side on the first floor, facing the sea, each with french windows leading out on to a shared balcony. A page boy escorted them, carrying their luggage. While he was showing Alex his room she opened the french windows in her own and went out on to the balcony to stare down the white promenade, through the smooth leaves of palm trees, to where the blue water curled on to the beach.
Half-naked bodies lay under beach umbrellas in the cool shade which protected them from the direct rays of the sun. A few people were swimming. One or two were sailing in small dinghies, the white of the sails flapping in a faint breeze. She could just hear the jingle of the mast wires us they turned.
A step brought her attention back to her more immediate surroundings. She turned and met Alex's silvery eyes. She was surprised to see that he had already changed into pale lightweight slacks and a brief black T-shirt, the silver medallion Sammy had given
him still dangling around his brown throat.
'You've changed,' she said unnecessarily.
His brows lifted sardonically. 'So I have,' he mocked. His eyes slid down over her. 'You'd better do the same. You look too neat and businesslike in that dress. Surely you brought something more casual?'
Deborah flushed. 'Only jeans and a top,' she admitted. 'I hadn't expected it to be so warm.'
'Put them on,' he commanded.
Irritated by his tone, she turned away, halting as he asked softly, 'Do you realise we're sharing a bathroom? You're slipping, Miss Portman. You usually manage to get us rooms on different floors, let alone side by side.'
'The booking was so late,' she said crossly. 'I had to take what they offered me.'
'Irritating for you,' he said in that tone which held a taunting amusement. Before she had a chance to retort, he added, 'I've just rung Ricky Winter and he's invited us to his villa for dinner. We'll have the day free until seven, so we might as well lunch downstairs and then take a look around Nice.'
She hesitated, alarmed at the prospect of spending so long alone with Alex in this warm, slumbrous atmosphere.
He was watching her, his silvery eyes half hidden by his lids. 'Are you afraid to be alone with me, Miss Portman?' he asked in that insidiously soft voice.
She clenched her hands at her side, longing to slap his face. 'Don't be ridiculous,' she said stiffly.
'Then go and get changed,' he said lightly.
She went back into her room, pausing to look at the open french windows with consideration, yet not daring, while Alex actually stood out there on the balcony to close and bolt them.
Finding her case, she laid it on the bed and began to unpack her clothes. She had brought the bare minimum with her, and frowned over them reluctantly, before hanging up the one evening dress she had brought, then getting out her jeans and top. When she had finished transferring the other items to drawers, she went into the bathroom.
It had two doors, she found. The one leading into Alex's room she bolted, then bolted her own, before beginning to wash and change her clothes.
Refreshed, slender in her casual clothes, she eyed herself in the bathroom mirror, hesitating over the skimpy and revealing white cotton top. What on earth had possessed her to pack it? she asked herself in despair. It had been a last-minute decision which she now regretted.
After a moment she unbolted the doors and slowly went back to the balcony. Alex sat there on a white-painted wicker chair, reading a newspaper which, she saw with some surprise, was in French.
He looked up, after a few seconds, and they stared at each other with the wary appraisal of animals. His eyes moved over her with leisurely curiosity. The silvery depths held no expression, but she shifted uneasily under his gaze.
'You look like a different girl,' he said slowly. His tone held a faint surprise. His eyes moved back to her white top. Sleeveless, cut in a plunging scoop which revealed the pale swell of her breasts, it was almost transparent in this strong sunshine, moulding her body like a second skin, but leaving a narrow gap between where it ended and where her jeans began, so that her smooth midriff could be glimpsed whenever she moved. Under his intent gaze she felt half naked and moved restlessly. 'Shall we go down to lunch?'
He rose, glancing at his wristwatch. 'A little early, but why not? We'll have more time on the beach.'
'The beach?' Her question was abrupt.
'You seemed envious of those holiday-makers,' he drawled. 'A few hours on the beach might be fun.'
They went along the thickly carpeted corridor in silence. Alex jabbed the lift button with his forefinger, and a few seconds later the lift arrived. They stepped inside. The doors closed silently, but when the lift started it gave a violent jerk, throwing Deborah sideways. Alex stopped her from falling by receiving her against his chest. Off balance, she lay against him, automatically reaching towards his shoulders to support herself. Through the fine cotton of her top she felt the strong muscles beneath his shirt, the animal warmth of his skin against her, and her heart began to race violently. His hands came around her, enclosing her, his palms laid flat against her back, one long thumb beginning to move in sensual massage along the exposed skin above her top. Deborah was unable to pull herself away. The moment elongated, leaving her curiously weak, intensely conscious of the firm muscles of his thighs against her legs.
A sick sensation came up into her throat. She pulled herself together and moved away from him, her eyes lowered in self-disgust, shuddering as she realised how she had felt during their contact.
In the past Alex had been apt to make one of his barbed comments on such occasions. She was puzzled and surprised when he made no remark on what happened, half turned away from her as the lift came to a halt.
Was he unaware of how she had felt? she wondered, following him across the wide, busy foyer to the dining-room. Spacious, carpeted, half empty at this early hour, the room looked out on to the sea front, tubs of blazing red geraniums lining the steps beyond the window. A billiard-table-smooth green lawn stretched down to a low wall. Beyond Deborah could see people walking in a lazy fashion along the pavement.
They sat down facing each other at a table near the window, and she pretended to be absorbed in the view, unwilling to risk meeting Alex's eyes.
When the menu was handed to her she was able to hide behind that, nervousness prickling in her throat.
They ate in comparative silence, avoiding looking at each other. Alex had ordered an excellent wine with the meal, and despite her protests, he insisted on topping up her glass from time to time. She drank very little, and the wine began to affect her, making her relax as the meal progressed, giving her false courage, so that she felt able to meet his unreadable eyes.
Deciding that his mother made a safe topic of conversation, she asked brightly, 'Will you ring your mother while you're here? She could come into Nice for lunch tomorrow.'
He looked up from his lobster salad, his eyes narrowing. 'I'll certainly ring her,' he said. 'Whether she'll come into Nice is another matter. Mother hates leaving her cottage.'
'Even to see you?' she asked teasingly.
'Even to see me,' he assented drily.
She looked at him curiously. 'Don't you get on with your mother?' She bit her lip. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked.'
He shrugged. 'Why not? Yes, I get on with her well enough. We have our own lives, though, and we make it a rule never to interfere with each other.'
She frowned. It was so unlike the sort of family life she needed and admired. 'But she's your mother…' Her tone revealed her disbelief and disapproval.
He smiled grimly. 'That doesn't make it necessary for us to live in each other's pockets.'
'You must hurt her feelings by being so indifferent,' she said, her blue eyes critical.
'Who said I was indifferent?' he asked. 'If I thought for a moment she needed me I'd drop everything and go to her at once.
Mother knows that. And I know she would come if I wanted her.' His gaze measured her comprehension coolly. 'All families aren't identical, you know.'
'Robin's family are very close-knit,' she said enthusiastically.
'What about yours?' he asked her, his mouth dented.
Her eyes saddened. 'I have no one,' she said, her voice reflecting her regret.
Alex frowned. 'No relatives at all?' The silvery eyes narrowed on her face in hard observation.
She shook her head. 'Neither of my parents had anyone. Except an uncle. He brought me up when they died. He was more interested in his stamp collection than in human beings.'
'How old were you when your parents died?' he asked, accepting the smooth orange cream the waiter brought him with a nod.
'A baby,' she said shortly, beginning to eat her own sweet, a fluffy concoction of soft strawberries and ice-cream embedded in whipped cream. It was too sweet for her taste, and after a while she pushed it away.
'So you were brought up by a rather remote uncle?' he persisted, fini
shing his own course and leaning back.
The waiter appeared, bowing, and they ordered coffee. Alex asked her permission to smoke a thin cigar, and lit it, his strong-lingered hands deft.
'Do you really think jeans are suitable for the beach?' Deborah asked, aware, as she watched his hands, that she was alarmed at the idea of spending time with him in such relaxing surroundings.
He looked at her over his cigar, pale blue smoke wreathing around his dark head. A smile smouldered in the depths of the silvery eyes. 'We'll see about that later,' he said ambiguously.
As they crossed the foyer after lunch he look her elbow and guided her towards the hotel shop which held pride of place at the hack of the carpeted floor. Puzzled, she allowed him to guide her through the door. Was he buying a gift for his mother? she wondered, as the svelte young assistant sauntered towards them.
'A bikini for the young lady,' Alex murmured.
'No!' Deborah exclaimed, flushing. 'I don't need…'
He smiled at the assistant. 'That one will do, if you have her size,' he said, jerking his head towards one on display.
Deborah's eyes widened in horror as she looked at it. She had never worn anything so revealing in her life. 'No,' she said again, in deeper rejection. But the girl was smiling, her eyes amused, and she moved away to return in an instant with a small box. Gesturing to a tiny fitting-room, she invited Deborah to try the bikini on in privacy.
Alex said, taking her arm and turning her so that the assistant should not hear, 'Do you want me to put it on you myself?'
She felt her cheeks burn. 'I can't wear that thing,' she protested.
'Stop being tiresome,' he said in a bored tone. He pushed her towards the fitting-room, thrusting the box into her hands.
She looked at herself in the long mirror a few moments later with flushed incredulity. Against her white skin the black brevity of the silky material showed like shadows. Fine silken cords linked the two tiny cups of the top, revealing the soft, high swell of her breasts. The briefs were tied at the hip in the same manner and left nothing whatever to the imagination. She felt naked.
Duel of Desire Page 4