Deborah was trembling, trying to pull herself together. Running a hand over her swollen mouth, she said shakily, 'I can't think how you got your reputation for making love, Alex. You play very roughly.'
'Only when I'm driven to it,' he retorted.
They stared at each other. He seemed as unable as she was to end the tension between them. Dry tension ached along her face. Her limbs shook with it. 'I think it would be wiser if I tidied the studio,' she said flatly. The ache in the centre of her body was too powerful to bear. She had to get away from him.
He resumed his chair, bending forward to add wood to the fire. The flush on his face might be caused by heat, she thought, but it would not explain the shake she could see in his fingers as he dusted his hands.
She got up and left the room without another word. In the studio she began to work feverishly, moving about in a methodical fashion which disguised the turmoil in which her feelings moved. Whenever she was upset or worried she relieved her tension by work. Restoring order to chaos helped her to ease her feelings. She needed to keep busy at this moment. It stopped her from losing her self-control even further than she had done.
Moving about, sorting through the strange objects she found, she could not stop thinking about Alex's behavior. It would be mere wishful thinking to let herself believe he cared more about her than a pure desire to go to bed with her, she told herself. His anger and emotion were both based on the frustration he was suffering. She had denied him something he had decided he wanted, and the spoilt little boy still hidden under the gloss of the sophisticated man had burst into enraged rebellion. Their isolation here, with nothing to take his mind off the subject, had made matters worse. She could imagine that his parents had given him everything he wanted as a child. Wealthy, indulgent parents showering him with material possessions must have left him with the impression that he only had to reach out for what he wanted to have it fall into his hands. The women he had met had only confirmed his impression. Given everything, he valued nothing.
Growing up as she had in financial security without love, Deborah had learnt to value love above everything else. For a long time she had equated it with security. Now she knew the only security lay in love, rather than the other way around. It was giving love which enriched life. She yearned to pour out her love to Alex. She had never known love in her life before. It was new-minted and precious to her, and she felt she bore an amazing present which she longed to give him, but she dared not, because what seemed so rich and splendid to her might seem pointless to him. Women had given him their love in the past, and he had dropped it carelessly. He had been showered with so much love, while she had had none. She knew it would destroy her if the chill fingers of disillusion, 'indifference and carelessness touched what she now had. It would be better to leave him never knowing how she felt. She might then retain the capacity to love. If she accepted the desire he offered her as a substitute for the emotion she needed, one day he would grow bored with her, and then she might be too scarred and bitter to recognise or accept any other love which she met. If she never saw Alex after they returned to London she might one day forget him, and the chance of love might return with another man.
Pausing, wiping her hot face with dusty fingers, she thought wryly: not Robin, though. He was a nice man. She liked him. But she knew now the difference between the affection and passion, and it was passion she wanted, although only if it came with love. The passion Alex offered was almost impersonal. He did not know the woman behind the body he desired. Although they had worked together for so long their talk had always been of the job they did, shop talk, unadulterated by anything outside. He had rarely mentioned his family. Gossip had told her he had few relatives apart from a mother he rarely saw. What did he do in his leisure hours apart from chase women? She paused, frowning. She really knew as little about his life as he did about hers. Yet she knew with total certainty that she loved him — spoilt, egotistic, arrogant, demanding though he was, she loved him.
'Aren't you ever going to stop?' he asked, at that moment from the doorway, leaning there staring around the room. 'Good heavens! Mother won't recognise it. What enormous numbers of books! I never noticed them before.'
'They were hidden under the junk,' she said, her back aching as she straightened.
'You'll be able to read instead of having to talk to me,' he said disagreeably. 'I'm hungry. Aren't you cooking any lunch?'
'I'd forgotten,' she said with a sigh, realising she had worked for hours. 'I'll wash and cook something. I'm sorry.'
Alex looked at her intently. 'You're tired,' he said more gently. 'Silly little fool, you've worn yourself out. I'll cook the lunch. You wash and then sit down for half an hour while I sort things out.'
'It's all right,' she protested. 'I can manage.'
He gripped her arm, shaking her slightly. 'Don't argue, Deb, there's a good girl. Do as you're told.'
She met the commanding eyes, sighed and acquiesced. When she had slowly washed she sat down beside the fire and watched him opening tins and moving about. He was slow but methodical. It began to make her tingle with frustration, realising he had to work out each move before he made it, unused to such work. At last they settled down to eat a delicious consommé from a tin, followed by the tinned ham served with an odd mixture of halved peaches and scrambled eggs. Replete and warm, Deborah congratulated him. She was seated in the chair, he had taken a position on the pillow at her feet.
'I'll do the washing up later,' he said, stretching his arms above his head.
'I'll do it,' she said quickly.
'No!' He turned his head and looked up at her in determination. 'I will, and no argument. But just now I'm feeling too sleepy and lazy.' He leaned backward until his head lay against her lap. 'It must be the fire,' he said, as casually as if he was unaware of the intimacy of their positions.
'I'm used to central heating, I suppose. There's something so cosy about a real fire.' She heard him yawn. 'We had rather a disturbed night, too.'
'Lie down on the bed and go to sleep for a while,' she suggested, struggling with a desire to stroke the dark head pillowed in her lap.
'I prefer to stay where I am,' he said smoothly. 'Unless you join me on the bed.'
She stiffened. 'Alex! Stop saying things like that.'
He groaned. 'No sense of humour, that's your trouble. Very well, tell me about your school. Did you like it?'
'Nobody beat me or neglected me,' she said. 'But I didn't exactly love the place.'
'Did you make many friends?'
'A few, but none I kept when I left.' Her voice quivered slightly. 'There was no one who mattered.' . 'Were you very lonely as a child, Deb?'
'Yes,' she admitted. 'Were you?'
Alex turned his head and again she saw his face inverted, the silvery eyes half hidden by drooping lids. 'Oddly enough, I was. Mother had a strong belief in the importance of individual privacy, which in practice meant she showed no curiosity about my life. It's admirable in its way, but I always felt she never really cared, although with my rational mind I knew she was very fond of me. My father was always busy. I had no brothers or sisters. Like you, I went to boarding school, but I did make friends there, friends I've kept ever since. I still see one or two at times. We exchange Christmas cards, meet when we remember. But I was lonely. It's hard to pin down why, because I had everything I could wish for…'He shrugged.
Deborah made no reply. She felt curiously sad. She suspected Alex had been given as little love as she had, although on the surface he had been surrounded by care. Perhaps if he had not been brought up so carefully he might have been able to value love.
He turned his face towards the fire. His lids drooped altogether, protecting his eyes from the firelight. His face smoothed out into sleep. After a long silence, guessing he was unable to feel it, she allowed herself to touch his hair. Her fingers softly brushed along the back of his head, then winnowed the dark strands, letting them fall through her grasp. She leaned back, staring
into the fire, her hands gently stroking his head.
The room gradually grew dusky. The bright spring sky paled. A chill began to fall as the wood burnt to ashes and the fire began to fade. Deborah dared not move for fear of waking him. There was a fierce delight in sitting here while he slept against her, unaware of her, his cheek against her knee. The moments drifted by preciously. She did not want to end them.
The sound of ash dropping through the grate woke him suddenly. He made a peculiar snorting sound, his head shifting, then she felt him tense as he realised where he was, and he turned to look at her, eyes blinking from sleep.
'My God! Why did you let me sleep on like that?' He sat up and made a face over the remains of the fire. 'You've let it go out! Have you no sense? We'll freeze to death without some warmth in this room.' He knelt beside the hearth, raking carefully, blowing some life back into what remained of the fire, feeding twigs on to it carefully until it blazed back into life.
'You must have been a boy scout,' she teased.
Alex grimaced. 'Not me!' He stretched, yawning. The movement brought awareness back to her. She looked at his lean back, the slim hips and well-shaped head. He turned and she looked away, flushing.
'Thank you for letting me sleep,' he said softly.
'How's your cold?' she asked casually.
'I think it was a figment of your imagination,' he said lightly. 'A few sneezes don't make a cold. I shall be able to sleep in the studio tonight, don't worry.'
'Don't be stupid, Alex,' she said flatly. There's no fire and it's bitterly cold in there. I'm not afraid you'll take advantage of me if you sleep in the same bed.'
He turned a suddenly savage face on her. 'Then you should be, because I might. I don't take your confidence in me as a compliment. I've never believed in knights in shining armour, and nor should you.'
'I don't imagine you are a knight in shining armour,' she said crisply. 'But I doubt if you enjoy rape, and it would have to be that, Alex. So there's no problem.'
He looked at her broodingly. 'You're tempting providence, Deb. Are you going to tell Robin about this? Do you think he would see it in the same light?'
'Why not?'
'Because I think Robin would prefer me to freeze to death in the studio rather than sleep with you,' he said grimly. He stared at her unsmilingly. 'If I sleep in here, I'll sleep on the floor by the fire. Then I'll be warm enough, won't I?'
She looked at him through her lashes. 'Are you a knight in shining armour, after all, Alex?' she asked him teasingly.
His face tightened. 'No,' he said in a furious voice. 'I'm a man who knows that if he has you in his bed tonight no power on earth will stop him taking you.'
Heat seemed to flame over her body. They stared at each other. She swallowed and forced herself to look away. Huskily, she said, 'Then you'd better sleep on the floor.'
'You made me spell it out for you, Deb,' he said in a tone harsh with anger. 'Now, I'd better do that damned washing up before we start cooking our evening meal. We're running out of edible supplies. Eggs again, I suppose.'
'The chickens!' she said, remembering them.
He grinned at her, his face softening, 'While you were working in the studio I spotted from the window that they'd settled on the garden wall. There are nooks and crannies in the stone. They seem to have made themselves quite comfortable. I've no doubt any eggs they've laid will be secreted among the shrubs out of sight. We'll never find them — hens have a genius for laying eggs where you can't find them.'
'How do you know about hens?' she asked him.
'I've stayed here,' he said, beginning to sort out the washing up to carry it into the bathroom.
Deborah tidied the room and began to find the eggs and the rest of the ham, intending to make them omelettes for supper. Alex came back while she was beating the eggs and deposited the clean crockery on the small table they were using. She had discovered it in the studio and although it was rickety and very stained with paint it was serviceable.
'The flood water is definitely going down,' he told her. 'Tomorrow we'll tackle the water in the house. It will have to be of the sheds.'
'Goodness knows what sort of mess the room downstairs will be in,' she said, grimacing. 'It will have to be scrubbed thoroughly, and even then that river smell will hang around for days. We must open all the windows and doors to air the place. You must light fires, too, Alex.'
He was standing staring at her with a fixed expression. She turned, sensing tension between them, and met his eyes with puzzled enquiry.
'Are you trying to domesticate me. Deb?' he asked.
Her eyes widened. 'If you don't want to help me, don't.' Her voice hardened with resentment. 'It's your mother's house, not mine.'
Alex stared a moment longer, then his lips twisted wryly. 'I'm sorry. You're right, it has to be done. I suppose the task seems so formidable that I dread the idea.'
'It will be hard work,' she said, nodding. 'But it has to be done. It would be dreadful for your mother to come back and find her house ankle-deep in mud.'
'I hope she's suitably grateful to you,' he said drily.
Deborah resented the remark. 'I'm not asking for gratitude. Anyone would do the same.'
All the time she had been making the supper. Now she slid two golden omelettes on to warmed plates while he watched her, his expression ironic.
'You're a superb cook, aren't you, Deb?' he asked in a voice which was far from pleasant. 'Perfectly shaped, perfectly risen omelettes cooked on a grotty old stove in impossible conditions… what an ideal wife you're going to make! I hope Robin appreciates his good fortune.'
She handed him his plate with a slap, thrusting it into his hands, then sat down on the pillow by the fire and ate her own, her head averted from him. The meal progressed in silence. Afterwards, they washed up in silence and tidied the room, avoiding each other's eyes.
Deborah spent five minutes in the bathroom, returning in the white smock to climb into bed. Alex watched her walk across the room with grimly narrowed eyes. During her absence he had spread his bedclothes close to the fire.
He went out. She had sorted out several books from the pile she had found in the studio, and she opened one and looked through it listlessly. It was a Victorian cookery book, French, each page having a small illustration of a recipe, and although she was amused and fascinated by the incredible quantities suggested for the dishes, her mind could not concentrate on what she read.
They had run out of eggs. Would they be able to find any tomorrow? The alarms over the storm and following flood might have made the hens stop laying. Her mouth was dry. She longed with physical eagerness for a cup of tea. The very thought of it made her groan. Since they arrived she had drunk only water, and the three bottles of Vichy water Alex had discovered had now all gone. Tomorrow they would have to think seriously about the problem of drinking water. If the water had subsided there might be traffic along the road. They had seen none all day, and she suspected the road was little used even in dry weather. But surely some vehicle must pass soon.
Alex came back wearing the black silk dressing-gown. Deborah looked at him through her lowered lashes, aching with love. 'If a car comes past tomorrow you could get a lift into the village and get help,' she said huskily.
He nodded. 'I don't know if a car is likely to pass, but a barge may come along. I've kept my eyes open now and then, but I've seen nothing.'
'A barge?' she frowned.
'Flat-bottomed barges pass along the river — they still use them around here to transport goods. If the road seems passable I'll walk to the village, though.'
'No,' she said emphatically. 'It would make your cold worse again. Why don't I go? If I follow the road I'm bound to find a village.'
Alex gave her an irritated look. 'Don't be absurd. If anyone goes I will!'
'Then we'll stay here,' she said obstinately. She did not like the idea of being left alone in this isolated house in a foreign country.
He made no answer, s
liding down between his bedclothes until only the dark sheath of his hair was visible. His head was turned facing the fire. She hesitated, nervously probing her lip with her tongue.
'I was going to read, but if you want to sleep…'
'Read for as long as you like,' he said tersely.
Tears pricked at her eyes. His hostile tone hurt and she felt wearily miserable. She closed the book and let it slide to the floor, then leaned over to turn down the paraffin lamp. Darkness settled over the room, leaving only the banked-up glow of the fire to illuminate it.
She lay on her face, burying herself in her pillow, silently crying without being able to halt the tears. They soaked into her pillow making her face wet.
She heard Alex make a harsh sound, and heard him move. Alarm held her still, tensing to guess what he was doing. He couldn't have heard anything; she knew she had not made a sound. But he padded over to the bed on bare feet and sat down beside her, his hand suddenly curving around the loose blonde hair.
'I'm sorry if I snapped,' he said gently.
Unable to reply, she nodded faintly, knowing he would feel the movement under his hand.
'For God's sake, don't cry,' he said in abrupt harshness.
She lay immobile, surprised. How had he known? Had she after all betrayed herself by some sound? The long hard fingers moved caressingly over her hair, stroking her head in a tender movement.
She forced herself to speak, to reassure him. 'I'm all right,' she said brightly.
For a few seconds Alex didn't move, then his hands picked her up by her still quivering shoulders and turned her over to face him. The firelight made a dim red glow by which they looked at each other.
His fingers softly drew across her wet lashes, then ran down her face, tenderly wiping away the tearstains. She sighed, content seeping into her. Alex groaned. His mouth lowered and trailed over her closed eyes, softly caressed the damp curves of cheek and mouth, lingering without passion, their hard outline warm as they parted her lips.
Duel of Desire Page 12