by Anne Mather
Dionne replied politely and Henri uttered an exclamation:
‘You sound so gloomy,’ he said. ‘Does my call cause you this – how shall I put it – depression?’
Dionne sighed. ‘No, of course not, Henri. It’s kind of you to ring. But I’m afraid I shall be leaving soon.’
‘What? Leaving? Leaving Provence?’ He sounded disappointed.
‘I’m afraid so. I – er – I have to return to England.’
‘But why? You have been here less than a week!’
‘I know. But – well, I have to get back.’
Henri clicked his tongue. ‘And when are you leaving?’
‘I – I’m not sure. Today – tomorrow perhaps. It depends when I can get a flight.’
‘Then it must be tomorrow, Dionne. At least allow me one more day of your company.’
Dionne hesitated. Despite her desire to put as many miles as she could between herself and the Mas St. Salvador, her heart was weak enough to succumb to the prospect of one more day within driving distance of Manoel. It was stupid, irresponsible even, but the idea of leaving so precipitately caused an actual pain inside her.
‘All right,’ she said now, in answer to Henri’s invitation. ‘All right, I’ll try and book a flight for tomorrow.’
She despised herself for her weakness, but it was done now and Henri was delighted.
‘What would you like to do?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I am free for the whole day. Would you like to go sightseeing? To the vineyards? To Les Baux? To Nimes, perhaps?’
Dionne quivered. ‘No – no, not there,’ she said quickly. ‘Couldn’t we – I mean – would it be possible just to go to Les Saintes Maries? We could have lunch there and after lunch we might – swim?’
Henri sounded enthusiastic. ‘Of course. If that is what you would like, Dionne. I hardly dared suggest something so delightful. When can you be ready?’
Dionne glanced at her watch. It was a little after nine. ‘Give me an hour,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I want to phone the airport.’
Henri agreed and rang off and Dionne emerged from the kiosk feeling a little better. Now that the actual time of her departure had been delayed by a day she could relax a little. She breakfasted in the restaurant and then went up to her room to change into something suitable. She decided trousers were the most suitable thing, but she donned her lemon bikini underneath to avoid the inevitable difficulties of changing later. Then, after applying a light make-up, she went downstairs again and rang the airport.
There had been a cancellation on a flight the following afternoon and she took it. As she emerged from the kiosk again she encountered the hotel manager. He smiled his usual warm smile and on impulse Dionne told him she would probably be leaving the following afternoon.
‘Oh, mademoiselle, I hope nothing is wrong,’ he exclaimed. ‘There is no trouble at home, is there?’
Dionne shook her head. ‘No, but I’m afraid I have to get back.’ She smiled. ‘But I have enjoyed my stay here, and I shall certainly recommend your hotel to my friends.’
The manager was suitably gratified with this news, and Dionne went on her way feeling the usual hollow feeling she experienced whenever she seriously considered what she was doing.
Henri arrived soon after ten and they drove the few miles to Les Saintes Maries. Already there were several tourists about examining the twelfth-century church where, in the chapel, the relics of the Maries are kept, and Dionne was regretful to note that the small town was becoming rather modern and commercialized. There was a caravan site there now which she had not seen before and several hotels which dispelled its illusions of historical significance.
Even so, the meal they enjoyed at one of the popular restaurants was delicious, and afterwards they left the car and walked along the beach past a few holidaymakers enjoying the warmth of a sunny afternoon. They found a quiet spot near some rocks and Dionne spread her towel and stretched out lazily, not yet bothering to shed her trousers and short-sleeved ribbed sweater. Henri had cast off his jacket in favour of a casual cardigan which was presently draped over one shoulder, and he lounged beside her, regarding her rather anxiously.
‘Is it absolutely necessary that you return to England tomorrow?’ he asked suddenly, taking her hand in both of his and caressing her fingers.
Dionne drew her hand away, but gently, and propped herself up on her elbows. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she answered, glancing at him before turning her attention to the plume of smoke from a ship on the horizon.
Henri sighed. ‘But why? You are on holiday. Surely you can wait another few days.’
Dionne compressed her lips. ‘It’s not as simple as that. I have – well – commitments, at home.’
‘What commitments can you possibly have?’ he jeered kindly.
Dionne frowned with concentration. ‘Henri, you know absolutely nothing about me. I could be married for all you know.’
‘You wear no ring.’
‘That’s no guarantee. Lots of girls in England don’t wear their rings all the time. There’s no law that says one has to.’
Henri studied her tilted profile. ‘And are you? Married, I mean?’
Dionne hesitated. ‘No.’
Henri relaxed and leaned towards her. ‘There you are, then. Now – couldn’t you stay? Just to please me?’
‘No, I can’t.’ Dionne shook her head firmly and then got to her feet. ‘Shall we swim?’
The suddenness of her change of subject surprised Henri, but with reluctant acquiescence he agreed. Quite unselfconsciously Dionne stripped off her pants and sweater and Henri stood regarding her admiringly.
‘Beautiful!’ he muttered huskily, and with an inconsequent gesture Dionne turned and ran into the water, splashing herself as she did so. Henri watched her for a moment longer and then he disappeared behind the rocks and when he emerged he was wearing white trunks that accentuated his tan. He joined Dionne in the water and for fully half an hour they swam and dived and ducked one another, Dionne’s hair floating about them like seaweed on the surface.
When they finally emerged, the sun felt pleasantly warm on their backs and Dionne towelled herself and her hair thoroughly before seating herself again. Henri’s hair took much less towelling and he flung himself on his stomach on his towel beside her, looking down into her flushed face with disturbing intensity.
‘Oh, Dionne!’ he whispered, and she hastily sat upright, avoiding his amorous gaze.
‘Please, Henri!’ she said tautly. ‘Don’t spoil everything.’
Henri uttered an expletive. ‘Why am I spoiling everything? I thought you liked me!’
‘I do.’ Dionne linked her fingers round her updrawn knees. ‘I do like you, Henri. But I don’t want to get – well – involved. Not in that way. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression—’
‘What is it you want of me, then?’ His voice, young and petulant, made her realize he was not as mature as he would have her believe. ‘You allow me to buy you lunch – to bring you here where we can be alone – and then you say you don’t want to be involved! What do you think I am?’
Dionne stared at him unhappily, a twinge of apprehension feathering along her spine. ‘Henri, please—’ she began, but he ignored her, jerking her unexpectedly towards him so that she lost her balance and fell against his chest. His lips sought hers and she turned her head from side to side, trying to avoid his mouth, pummelling at him with her fists, trying to force him to release her. But her agitation only seemed to excite him and he held her closer, his breathing hot and urgent.
Dionne was just beginning to feel really angry when suddenly Henri was dragged away from her and a callous blow to his stomach and another to his jaw caused him to groan and stagger back to measure his length on the sand. Dionne scrambled to her feet, overwhelmingly conscious of the scarcity of her attire, to meet the cold, penetrating censure in Manoel St. Salvador’s eyes.
‘Put on some clothes!’ he snapped shortly, and turne
d away to haul Henri to his feet.
Henri was recovering slowly, moaning as he pressed a protective hand to his injured stomach. His eyes widened disbelievingly as he recognized Manoel, however. ‘Manoel!’ he was reproachful. ‘C’est moi, Henri! A quoi pensez-vous?’
Manoel’s jaw tightened. ‘Not now, Henri. I am in no mood for pleasantries!’
‘C’est évident!’ muttered Henri, rubbing his tender jawline. ‘I do not understand you, Manoel! What have I done wrong? Do you know Mademoiselle King?’
Manoel’s eyes were bleak. ‘Oui! I know Mademoiselle King!’ he agreed coldly.
Henri shook his head in a perplexed fashion, looking curiously towards Dionne. But Dionne was too busy pulling on her sweater and pants over her damp swimsuit to notice him.
When she was dressed Manoel took her arm in a vice-like grip and with an abrupt nod in Henri’s direction he marched her swiftly along the sand to where the dust-smeared station wagon awaited them. He swung open the door and thrust Dionne inside before sliding in after her and immediately starting the engine. The heavy vehicle did a close semi-circle of a turn, and then moved bumpily across the uneven shoreline to the road, and Dionne sat stiffly in her seat wondering how and why he was here at all…
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT was hot in the car and Dionne’s damp swimsuit was clinging to her most uncomfortably. Manoel was driving with intense concentration, and although she badly wanted to know where he was taking her, the grim unapproachable expression on his face precluded such a question. But she shifted stickily in her seat and the jerky movement caught his attention.
‘Sit still!’ he advised harshly. ‘You will only make yourself more uncomfortable by shuffling about!’
Dionne looked at him mutinously, her initial gratitude at his intervention giving way to resentment. What right had he to interfere in her affairs no matter what she did? Surely after what happened yesterday it had been reasonable to assume that she would never see him again. Why was he here? Why had he come looking for her? What did he want of her now?
‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded, annoyance giving her the courage to speak.
Manoel cast a contemptuous glance in her direction. ‘I haven’t given the matter much attention as yet,’ he retorted crisply. ‘I imagine you would like to get out of that wet swimsuit and dry yourself thoroughly, wouldn’t you?’
Dionne’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
Manoel’s lids narrowed his eyes. ‘Stop jumping to conclusions, Dionne! Just because you seem prepared to make yourself easy game for any man doesn’t mean—’
‘How dare you?’ Dionne was incensed. ‘How dare you say such a thing to me!’ Her voice broke ignominiously. ‘Oh – oh, I hate you, Manoel!’
Manoel’s fingers tightened on the wheel, and with an abrupt swing he brought the station wagon across a stretch of mossy turf to the very edge of a shallow étang. A clump of plane trees shaded the station wagon, throwing its interior into cooling shadow, but Dionne thrust open her door as soon as they stopped and climbed out with alacrity, putting some distance between herself and its occupant.
But Manoel did not move, and she was left feeling rather ridiculous at the edge of the marshy stretch of blue water. And it was hot. The sun burned down on her head with unseasonable strength, and eventually she was forced to seek the shade of the plane trees.
Only then did Manoel emerge from the station wagon, a cheroot between his teeth, a rough length of towelling in his hands.
‘Here!’ he said, thrusting the towelling towards her. ‘It’s not very glamorous, but at least it’s clean. I keep it in the car for occasions when I feel like submerging myself after a particularly sweaty job. Go on! Take it. It’s not contaminated!’
Dionne pressed her lips together and then leaning forward caught the end of the towelling reluctantly. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ she inquired heatedly. ‘Strip off in front of you?’
Manoel took the cheroot from his mouth. ‘When I require that kind of stimulation I prefer to watch a professional!’ he remarked cruelly, and turning away went back to the station wagon.
Dionne hesitated only a moment and then kicking off her sandals she shed her outer garments, and stood for a moment hesitating in the lemon bikini. Away to the left a shimmering lagoon beckoned and on impulse she plunged through the shallow étang to the cool waters beyond. It was glorious submerging her heated limbs and the stickiness she had experienced in the car all dissolved.
She splashed about for several minutes, looking towards the distant station wagon, but Manoel seemed indifferent to her actions and eventually she had to get out. But as she waded towards the reeds that fringed the lagoon the sound of splashing behind her caused her to swing round in alarm. Several feet away, its curved horns lowered menacingly, pawed one of the sturdy black bulls of the Camargue.
Dionne was petrified for a moment, unable to even think what she should do. The bull was alone, which was unusual, and she could only assume it had left the herd without the gardiens noticing it. It was a Spanish bull, broad and muscular, bred for the corrida and not for any peaceful purposes. Visions of herself lying gored and mutilated, her blood staining the waters of the lagoon, flooded her mind, and an awful sense of inevitability overtook her.
On trembling legs she backed slowly away from the animal, trying not to make any unco-ordinated movements which might startle it into action. The creature watched her with its beady eyes, snorting and switching its tail as insects came to irritate it. It took a couple of steps into the lagoon, swaying its head from side to side, and Dionne lost her nerve. She no longer tried to be calm, but turned and splashed clumsily to the edge of the water and then ran swiftly through the marshy étang.
She heard the splashing noises behind her and knew that the bull was wading through the lagoon and following her, but she dared not look back. And then she saw Manoel running towards her from the station wagon, a heavy stick in his hand, splashing through the mudpools with careless regard for his soft suede boots and trouser-clad legs. He passed Dionne and yelled: ‘Get into the back of the wagon!’ and on trembling legs Dionne complied, scrambling in through the rear door on to the rough wooden surface that was strewn with ropes and tackle, and smelled strongly of horseflesh.
The bull had been sidetracked by Manoel’s appearance, and had halted some distance from the station wagon, snorting and pawing the ground angrily. Dionne knew it was getting ready to charge and all Manoel had to defend himself was the stick in his hand. She watched the scene despairingly, willing Manoel to turn and make a dash for the car.
But Manoel seemed almost relaxed now, speaking softly to the animal in his own language, almost coaxing its good humour. The bull continued to snort, swishing its tail, swinging its head, but less aggressively now, and Dionne felt a cold sweat break out all over her body.
Eventually Manoel backed away from the bull, and when he reached the back of the station wagon Dionne thrust open the door to allow him to climb inside. She was trembling violently by now and he took one look at her shaken face before grasping her shoulders and wrenching her close against his hard body.
‘Dear God, never do that to me again!’ he groaned, in a strangled voice, and buried his face in the softness of the hair on her nape. He was trembling too, she could feel it, but the hands that slid round her bare waist were firm and cool and hard and almost cruelly possessive. ‘What in hell were you thinking of?’ he muttered against her throat, and then his mouth parted over hers, cutting off any coherent answer.
Dionne was beyond resistance. Her own agony at seeing Manoel out there, at the mercy of the bull, had destroyed her defences, and she clung to him urgently, arching her body to his, unbuttoning his shirt and pressing herself against his warm, male-scented skin.
He bore her back against the roughness of the floor, but she scarcely noticed the discomfort. He was kissing her hungrily, one hand caressing the skin of her waist, one leg imprisoning her legs, reducing her to a warm an
d pliant being more than willing to submit to his every demand. This was Manoel; the man she loved; the father of her child; the other half of herself, and no matter what he had done in the past she loved him still.
But this time it was Manoel who drew back, dragging himself away from her to sit in a hunched position, his legs drawn up, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bent so that his hands cupped the back of his neck.
‘Oh, God!’ he said, in a tortured tone. ‘Oh, God, Dionne, I want you!’
Dionne lay where he had left her, her lips bruised from the savagery of his lovemaking, her hair a cloud of darkness about her.
‘Manoel,’ she murmured achingly, but with a violent curse Manoel thrust open the door of the station wagon and sprang out, taking long gulping breaths of the warm sweet air.
Then he moved, lifting her clothes and the towelling which she had dropped so carelessly beside the étang and threw them into the back of the vehicle. He turned away and walked some distance from the station wagon to lean against a tree, seeking for his cheroots in his pocket. The bull had long since disappeared and they were alone in this watery wilderness.
Dionne forced herself to move, and became aware of the discomfort beneath her. She had been lying on a curl of rope and the skin of her back felt taut and sore. She rubbed herself dry with the towelling, taking off the bikini and eventually pulling on her pants and sweater. She felt much more comfortable now and she climbed out of the vehicle and wrung the excess water from the scraps of lemon cotton.
Manoel turned as he heard her close the rear door of the station wagon and came slowly back to her, grinding his cheroot out beneath the heel of his boot. His eyes flickered over her intently, and then he strode swiftly round to the driving seat and slid behind the wheel. Dionne pressed her lips together, and then with a shrug she did likewise, climbing in beside him rather unsteadily.
Manoel did not immediately start the engine. He rested his elbows on the steering column and stared unseeingly into the distance. Then he said: ‘I could kill you!’ in a perfectly normal tone.