"That's a horrible thing to say,” she flashed.
"Self-defence."
Her smile this time was real, although there was a complicated adrenalin-fed anger behind it. “Oh, pooh!” she said, making a face at him. “I'm no threat to you. You can't tell me I've cost you any sleep."
He stopped dancing suddenly, looking down at her, and she caught her breath, gazing back at him. His hands tightened on her. His voice very soft, he said, “All right. I'll tell you. I've lost sleep over you for weeks at a time, especially when you were in my house, and I knew I had only to walk down the passageway and be welcomed into your bed. You don't have any idea of the nights I lay awake trying not to think about that, and despising myself for doing so. You make my blood run hot just by looking at me, and when I hold you I want nothing more than to take you the nearest bed and make love to you until morning, and the morning after, and the one after that, until we're both so spent we fall asleep in each other's arms. I was besotted over you. You're my middle-aged erotic fantasy—does that please you? But fantasies have nothing to do with reality. If I take a woman into my life I have to consider the children. What I need is a mother for them, not a pretty nymphet who's nearer Toby's age than mine. As you pointed out, Lorna would fill the bill admirably."
Then he said, “I'll take you back,” even though the music hadn't stopped, and walked her across the floor with his arm about her waist. He put her in her chair, and turned and left her.
And Rennie sat and deliberately didn't watch him go to Lorna's side and bend close to speak to her, then take her into his arms to dance. She listened to Larry talking, and smiled and nodded and even laughed once or twice, then got up to dance with him, and didn't feel a thing. Not a thing.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That came later. She was astonished at how much it hurt. Lying awake in bed she said to herself wonderingly, against the pain, You never really believed it, did you? That he could turn his back on you and decide cold-bloodedly to marry someone else. You thought that somehow it would all come right. Like in the story books. Kidded yourself you were doing great without him, when all you were doing was marking time and waiting for him to admit that he couldn't do without you. Well, he could. And this time it's for real, you have to accept that it's over, finally. And if you truly love him you'll hope that he will live happily ever after. With Lorna.
She thumped her pillow and tried to will herself to hope that. But all she could think was, But I want it to be me! Why couldn't it have been me?
This time it was harder. When she appeared at breakfast, pale and puffy-eyed, her father asked if she had a cold, and her mother looked at her searchingly.
"Too much gin last night, more likely,” Shane said. “She was knocking it back like nobody's business.” But his teasing grin was strained and almost apologetic. He was covering for her.
"I might be getting a cold,” she agreed. She didn't want any discussion of what was really ailing her. The wounds felt too new and raw. While grateful for her family's concern, she knew she was going to have to get over this by herself.
Life had to go on somehow. She immersed herself in study, swotting for her finals, actually forgetting Grant for hours at a time. Except for a nagging, hollow ache that never quite went away and that she learned to live with. Then the exams were on her and she made a gut-wrenching effort to banish Grant's memory while she tackled them. By the time they were over she was blessedly tired, and for days at a time nothing seemed to matter any more. Not the exam results, not her projected career, not even her blighted love life.
At the end of the year she applied for a holiday job with a legal firm. A letter came inviting her to come for an interview the following week.
They asked her to bring references from any previous employers. That was something she hadn't thought of. References from her father, who had sometimes given her field training, wouldn't be very telling, she supposed.
She had one or two others, but the most valuable one, in terms of her employment experience, was probably missing. And time was getting short.
She had to do it. The day before the interview, she phoned Grant at his office.
"Rennie?” He sounded reserved as he answered.
"I'm sorry to bother you. But I need a reference. I wondered if you'd mind—"
"Of course I don't mind!” Was that relief she heard in his voice? “I'll be happy to write you a glowing testimonial. You want me to post it to you?"
"No.” She paused. “No, there isn't time, I'm afraid. I have to produce it for an interview tomorrow. Sorry it's such short notice, but I wondered if I could pick it up from your office on my way to the interview."
"Yes, certainly."
She was sure he sounded decidedly cool, now. Did he think she was making an excuse to see him?
And aren't you? an inner voice jeered. If you'd contacted him earlier he could have posted it, and you'd have no need to call.
"You could leave it with your receptionist,” she suggested, trying to match his tone. “I won't need to bother you."
"No bother. What time do you expect to call?"
"About twelve-thirty,” she said, “but I could make it earlier if that time is inconvenient.” He could legitimately be out to lunch then, she thought. “The interview is at one."
"Twelve-thirty is fine,” Grant said. “I'll see you then."
She dressed for the interview carefully if listlessly, choosing a dark green skirt and an apricot blouse that looked both pretty and business-like, and slipping her feet into a pair of medium-heeled Brazilian leather shoes. She pinned her hair back and applied a little eye makeup and a touch of lipstick, and hoped she looked both capable and mature. Most fourth year students would be a little older than she was.
When she gave her name to the receptionist at Grant's office, the woman said, “Yes, Miss Langwell. Mr Morrison is expecting you. Come right on in."
She got up to open the door, withdrawing and closing it behind Rennie when she had entered the room.
Grant rose from the desk and said, “Come in, Rennie. Have a seat.” He had glanced at her briefly, but now he didn't seem to want to look at her.
"Thank you.” She sat on the edge of the chair he indicated. “But I can't stay. I don't want to be late."
"No, I understand. You don't want to make a bad impression. You may want to read what I've said about you, though.” He took a piece of paper from the desk, and got up to come round and hand it to her, leaning back against the desk while she read.
"Thank you,” she said. “It's very—flattering. Glowing was hardly the word for it. Trying to smile, she added, “You've made me sound like a cross between Florence Nightingale and the Angel Gabriel."
Grant laughed. “Every word is true. I hope it gets you the job,” he said, taking it from her and folding it into an envelope.
She stood up quickly, holding out her hand, expecting him to move aside as he gave her the envelope.
But he didn't. And that made them very close. So close she could smell his masculine scent, see the fine lines about his eyes, hear his breathing. Outside the traffic hummed, and someone put on their brakes with a protesting squeal. But the room seemed locked in stillness and quiet.
"Rennie?” His hand came up and brushed her cheek. “Are you really all right?"
His hand was resting lightly on her neck now, his thumb lifting her chin. She thought what she saw in his eyes was some kind of longing, but she reminded herself of the way he had flayed her last time they met, of what he thought of her, really. Does that please you? he'd asked bitterly, as though she was a shallow tease who had led him on for some kind of teenage ego-trip of her own. And he had described his own feelings minutely enough. Lust, for which he despised himself. Something he thought of ugly and unworthy. Because he was a man on the wrong side of thirty-five, with two children, and she was—had been—an attractive nineteen-year-old with an undisguised passion for him.
"Of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be?
” Her voice was brittle. She wished he would stop touching her....No she didn't. She wished he would go on touching her and never, never stop...
He shrugged, and dropped his hand. “I just wondered if you ... I thought ... you look thinner."
"Do I? Maybe it's the hairdo. You've no need to worry about me."
He shook his head. “I can't help being ... concerned for you.” He looked down and said huskily, “Rennie, let's stop pretending. I hurt you, and you don't know how deeply I regret that."
"I told you the other night,” she said. “There's nothing to worry about. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you with my adolescent maunderings—"
"I wasn't embarrassed,” he said. “I'm ... honoured that you gave me a little of your love, even if it was only for a while.” Softly he added, “Be happy, Rennie. I hope that with all my heart.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and then at last moved away, allowing her to go to the door.
"Thank you, Grant,” she said. At this moment she felt she would never be happy again. Which was a ridiculous outlook, she knew. But knowing it didn't alter anything.
Lorna was talking to the receptionist in the outer office. She smiled. “Hello, Rennie."
Rennie's lips stretched. “Hello.” Lorna was the last person she wanted to see just now. To be polite to. “I've just been collecting a reference from Grant,” she said, surprised at how normal her voice sounded.
"Yes, he told me about it,” Lorna said.
Of course he would have. He probably told her everything.
Please God, not everything! No, he wouldn't. Not about the fact that his young baby-sitter had thought she was in love with him. Not about kissing her, nearly making love to her. Not about how she could make him feel, in spite of his good intentions.
"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting,” she said to Lorna.
"Not at all.” Lorna headed towards the door to Grant's office. “Nice to see you again.” She nodded pleasantly and went in without knocking.
Out on the street, Rennie took several deep breaths. The traffic seemed noisier than ever, and what she was breathing in was not so much fresh air as exhaust fumes.
She tucked the envelope carefully into the bag hanging at her shoulder, and glanced at her watch. Plenty of time.
She went back to the pedestrian lights, crossed, then retraced her steps on the other side of the street, resisting the urge to glance up at Grant's office window. If she could see him, he would be with Lorna. Would they be standing close—kissing, perhaps?
Stop torturing yourself.
"Rennie! Ren!” Shane caught at her arm. He had Amanda hanging with him.
"Sorry.” She smiled at them both. At least someone was happy in this world. “Hi, Amanda. How are you?"
"Okay.” The girl smiled back briefly. But her face looked pinched and pale, “How're you?"
"We might have a bit of a problem,” Shane said.
"I think Kevin's after me,” the girl said.
"She thought she saw him just a while ago,” Shane added. “Back there."
"I'm sure he was following us!” Amanda shuddered. “I'm scared."
Shane put his arm about her, pulling her close.
"After all this time?” Rennie was sceptical. “It's months since you broke if off with him."
"I think he's done it before. I told myself I was bound to bump into him, but ... And there've been phone calls at home. At first he used to abuse me if I answered, now he just hangs up. But I know it's him."
"Go to the police,” Rennie said.
"You think so?” Shane looked up.
"He's already hit her once. I think you should ask the police to check it out. Look, I'm sorry, but I've got an appointment. Talk her into it,” she advised Shane tersely. “Let me know what happens."
She turned along the street, brushing her way through the crowd. A man started out of a shop doorway, also in a hurry, she thought vaguely as she sidestepped to avoid him.
Rennie stopped dead. It was Kevin. He had a peculiarly intent expression as he scanned the street behind her, then walked on, not seeing her at all.
Coincidence? Surely not. He was following Amanda.
If she turned back to follow him, to warn Shane and Amanda, she'd be late for her appointment.
With all these people about, what harm could he do? He was probably playing a particularly cruel game with poor Amanda, deliberately showing himself now and then but being careful not to do anything criminal that could get him into trouble.
Rennie's flesh crawled. He really was a nasty piece of work.
She started back the way she had come, almost running, scanning the bobbing heads in front of her.
She bumped into someone, murmured a hasty apology and kept going. She could see Shane now. And Amanda, still snuggled against him, as they stood close to a big display window full of women's shoes, Shane earnestly talking, dropping a kiss on her hair.
And then she saw Kevin quite close to them, he must have moved awfully fast. Rennie broke into a run.
She saw Kevin move forward, and yelled, “Shane!
But she was too late. Kevin lunged, grabbed at Amanda, shoving her aside. Then his fist crashed into Shane's face, and Shane slumped to the ground.
As Rennie reached them, Amanda launched herself on Kevin, shrieking, hitting out at him. He felled her with the back of his hand, just as Shane, starting groggily to his feet, swung wildly and ineptly at the other man, before Kevin knocked him flying again, and drew back a booted foot.
Amanda flung herself across Shane's prone body. Rennie shot forward and gave Kevin a hard shove. People had stopped, some frozen in shock, one or two beginning to move cautiously forward. Someone said, “Call the police!"
Kevin rounded on Rennie, astonishment in his face, and then murder. “You!” he said. “You bitch! I'll fix you, too. I'll fix the lot of you!"
She saw his fist coming at her, and tried to dodge, her hands automatically going up to defend herself. She twisted away, saw her own frightened face reflected in plate glass, oddly mixed up with rows of shiny new shoes. And then something slammed into her, and she knew he had hit her, before the world went black and she felt herself falling and heard a terrible crashing all around her. But she never felt the plate glass smash on the impact of her body, never felt the deadly slivers slice into her still upraised arms, her shoulders, her back. And her face.
When she became conscious again, her face felt stiff. Both arms and her right hand were bandaged, and after a while she realised there were bandages on her head, too, and dressings covering half her face.
"Sore?” A nurse bent over her, feeling her pulse.
"Not specially.” Her voice sounded strange. She asked for a drink of water.
When she handed it back, the nurse put the glass down on the bedside cupboard. “Your mother's outside. I'll send her in, shall I?"
Marian came in, smiling but pale. “You look better,” she said.
"You've been in before?"
"Mmm. You were pretty groggy, though. You don't remember?"
"No.” There had been dreams. She thought they were dreams. Grant had been in some of them. Grant, Shane, her parents.
"Do you remember what happened? Why you're here?"
"Kevin,” Rennie answered. “Is Amanda all right? And Shane?"
"They're both okay. Shane was kept in overnight and then discharged. You got the worst of it, I'm afraid. Shane's inclined to blame himself for that."
"It wasn't his fault. I went through that window, didn't I?” Rennie asked, looking at her hands. She could see several small red nicks not covered by the bandages. “How bad are the cuts?"
"They can't tell yet. Fortunately the glass missed your eyes.” Her mother sounded reassuringly matter-of-fact.
"He must have been crazy,” Rennie said. “Kevin. With all those people about—"
"I could wish some of those people had reacted a bit faster,” Marian said.
"Didn't they do anything?"
"Oh, y
es. But only after he'd knocked you through that window. Then a couple of men held him until the police got there. And the ambulance."
Rennie moved her right arm, and winced. “You must have been worried. Getting a call from the hospital—or was it the police? I suppose that would be worse."
"Actually, Grant phoned me."
"Grant? How did he—"
"It happened right across the street from his office,” Marian reminded her. “When the ambulance arrived, naturally he looked out to see what was going on. He recognised you—well, your clothes—as they were putting you on the stretcher. He went down, insisted on going with you to the hospital, then phoned me. When I arrived he was with you. You don't remember?
Rennie shook her head. “I thought I'd dreamed—” Grant holding her hand, stroking her hair, whispering words of comfort and love into her ear. That part she must have dreamed. “That was kind of him,” she said. “Please thank him for me."
Marian hesitated. “I have, of course, for all of us. But you can do that yourself when you're feeling better,” she added.
"I don't want to see him."
"You don't want to see him? Or you don't want him to see you?"
"Does it matter?” Rennie felt tears gathering in her eyes. “Please! Please, keep him away from me!"
Marian got up and took her hand. “All right, I'll explain that you're not up to having visitors except family, okay?"
"Thank you.” The tears were trickling down her cheeks, now, soaking into the dressings and bandages.
"Shh.” Her mother smoothed her hair. “It's all right, Rennie. Everything's going to be all right. I promise."
It won't, Rennie thought. But she was childishly glad of her mother's comforting presence, and in a little while the tears stopped and she went to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She had to agree to see Grant. It was unreasonable not to, and he had been asking to visit. She didn't dare say that she couldn't bear him to bring Lorna, but when he arrived he was alone, bearing only messages from her. And flowers. She was glad of the yellow roses, because the business of thanking him and smelling their perfume and asking a nurse for a vase helped her to get over the initial greeting.
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