Age of Consent

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘I’m sorry I seemed to upset you tonight,’ he said, handing over a cup of fresh coffee laced with brandy when Helen entered the lounge room wrapped in a long, snuggly towelling robe. ‘I suppose I should have realised Marina might decide to take the mickey out of you, and maybe I should have prepared you better.’

  ‘I rather think I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,’ Helen replied. Almost coldly, because she still felt she was due an apology far more specific than what he’d offered.

  But it was hard to stay angry at him, almost impossible in fact. Leaning casually against a sideboard, his dinner jacket replaced now by a light shaving coat that was only loosely belted at the waist, he looked so ... unthreatening.

  For one wild, heart-fluttering instant, she had the urge to step closer, to trace her fingers through the curls of hair that ran upward from the opening of the robe. Then she caught the gleam in his eye, judged it slightly more mocking than usual, and found her temper returning.

  ‘Well I’m still not happy at you insinuating that I’m a liar,’ she declared resolutely.

  ‘Ah ... that’s better,’ he grinned. ‘Now all I’ve done is to insinuate. You’re getting nearer to the truth, young Helen, even if you don’t want to admit it.’

  ‘And don’t call me that,’ she snapped. ‘Unless you’d prefer that I go around referring to you as grandfather, or some such thing. And I would, no worries.’

  ‘Which would only prove the truth of my ... insinuations,’ he replied, and laughed aloud at her hiss of exasperation. ‘Oh no, Helen. I’m no grandfather. I’m no relative at all, except in a sort of weird, second-hand sort of way. And I’m even beginning to wonder about that; you’re getting far too mature to need that.’

  ‘Well if I’m so damned mature, will you please stop referring to me as young Helen,’ she snapped, patience now close to its end. ‘Or is it asking too much for you to make up your mind whether I’m too young for ... And she stopped, aghast at what she’d almost said.

  ‘Too young for ... what?’ Dane asked, stepping close to her and depositing his coffee cup on the sideboard as he did so. Then he reached out to take Helen’s cup from fingers that shook so much they threatened to drop the cup. She didn’t see him do it; her eyes were locked on his as he approached, her entire body trembled with something that mingled anticipation with dread.

  ‘No,’ she said, but the word was lost in her gasp as his fingers cupped her chin, lifting her eyes, maintaining their lock with his as his face loomed closer.

  ‘Or should I say, for whom?’ he asked, voice low and vibrant, pulsing like the movement of blood through her temples. Helen was mute, spellbound by eyes that now were only inches from her own, entranced by the touch of his fingers against her skin, the warmth of his body so close to her.

  ‘No!’ Louder, this time. Almost a perceptible whisper, but not, apparently, loud enough for him to hear. Or else he ignored her protest, cutting it off with his own lips so effectively she might as well not have spoken.

  Helen shivered as his arms closed around her, but it was a shiver of ecstasy, not of fear. He didn’t really need to press her close to him as his lips continued their assault; she was straining against him by herself, her breasts flattening against the hard musculature of his chest, her thighs warmed by the heat of his body.

  Only Helen’s mind rebelled against his caresses, knowing they were more than just that ... they were the beginnings of a form of punishment, a form of chastisement. And ... it just couldn’t be like that. She wanted him, but she wanted him to take her in love, not in punishment, not with the realisation that she would become — almost had already become — a slave in his arms, a captive to his touch, to his kiss.

  ‘No!’ And this time he heard; he must have, considering she was forced to wrench free her lips to shout out her denial.

  ‘Yes!’ And his lips returned, stifling her objections, bruising against the softness of her mouth even as his strong fingers locked behind her, holding her powerless in his grasp.

  No ... no ... no ... but her refusal was no more than a silent scream as strong arms lifted her, as Dane carried her to the nearby couch.

  ‘Oh, yes, young Helen,’ he hissed in her ear as he laid her down, stretching the heat of him, the strength of him, beside her, locking her again in the cradle of his arms. ‘I think it’s high time we established who’s too old — or too young — for whom.’

  And now it wasn’t only his lips that claimed her; his fingers slid beneath her robe, touching her body with a practised skill, lifting sensation within her as easily as if he were lighting a cigarette. Easier! Only this fire burned strangely, flickering through her sensual regions like a wildfire, touching here and there, almost moving, always striking new fuel. And inside, deep inside the secret centre of her heart, it burned with a fierce, white- hot fury, scorching away common sense, turning logic to ashes.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This was punishment, paradise, love and hatred combined. She wanted him to love her, wanted his body against her like this, his fingers ... just there. She wanted to use her own hands on a voyage of exploration, then follow with another of her body.

  But not like this! Not with him using his skills as a weapon to conquer her, as a rod to punish her. That would take from the love-making everything she needed most.

  Everything ... like his lips at her breast, his tongue a teasing, tantalising sensation against her turgid nipple, like his fingers against the softness of her body, touching, arousing, inflaming, invading. Like her own fingers struggling through the hair on his chest, fumbling against the waistband of his slacks, betraying all her logic and reason with a hellish, marvellous abandon.

  Until he spoke again. Until he whispered: ‘Still think I’m too old?’, his voice ragged with desire that seemed to match her own, a voice filled with undertone that

  Helen’s beleaguered mind interpreted in the only way it could.

  He was laughing at her! The impression struck like a thunderbolt, smashing through the lassitude of her near-surrender, lashing at her conscience, her very personal image of herself. And of him.

  ‘Yes!’ She spat. The word was acid, smoking lava, smelling of sulphur. Like the boiling inferno of sulphur where her heart had been.

  ‘Yes!’ She spat it out again, trying to rid herself of the taste of him. Dane recoiled as if he’d been struck, and Helen sprang up from her position on the couch as if shot from a gun. Her fingers were outstretched like claws; if she touched him now, it would be only to rend, to tear away the smugness and the conceit.

  He reached out, but halted the gesture when she flashed her nails at him like a fist full of swords. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, and for an instant she could almost believe the expression of bewilderment in his eyes. But only for an instant; she knew better, deep inside.

  ‘You ... you utter bastard!’ she cried, reaching out in her anger, her rage. ‘You know what’s wrong ... you made it wrong.’

  ‘No, Helen,’ he replied, voice soft, still bemused but now regaining the total control she would have expected. ‘No, I don’t, and I didn’t.’

  ‘You did! Damn it, you did! Look at us. This could have been and should have been something beautiful, not some sort of let’s get Helen under control. You ... you just don’t understand.’

  And that was the crux of it, she knew. Even if he were honest, he didn’t understand and could never and never would. Men!

  ‘I certainly never thought of it as anything like that,’ he said, voice now velvet-smooth, controlled.

  ‘You never thought of it as anything at all,’ Helen snapped, ‘because you don’t think. You just manipulate, using people like puppets to suit your own selfish ends. You manipulated me to help you manipulate Marina Cole, and probably the other way round as well. People aren’t real, to you. They’re just like the characters in your damned books. Well … not me. Not anymore.’

  ‘What we were just doing, Helen, was not exactly the sort of manipulation
you’re talking about,’ Dane replied softly, but to Helen there was an underlying anger in his voice. There must be, after the accusation she’d just flung at him.

  ‘Like hell,’ she cried. ‘It was exactly the kind of manipulation I was talking about. Is that what you do with Marina when she argues? Stop talking and whirl her into bed where you can control her? Is that what you did with Vivian?’

  And then she paused, her voice stilled by the unholy light that sprang like lightning from Dane’s eyes. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tautened, she could almost hear his teeth grinding together as he fought for control.

  No question — now she’d done the unforgivable. Done it without thinking, without even vaguely considering the consequences. But she’d done it, and now she felt fear ... very real fear.

  Dane leaned towards her, his eyes blazing, his fists clenched at his sides. He loomed like some enormous spectre, some monster out of imagination, but he didn’t touch her. Yet.

  ‘I ... I ... oh, God, I’m sorry,’ Helen stammered. ‘Please, Dane. I didn’t mean to say that, or even think it. Honestly.’ And as she spoke, she was already involved in a steady retreat towards the hallway and the door to her room, for what questionable safety that might offer.

  He didn’t reply ... and he didn’t follow.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Helen barely slept that night, at first because she was half-convinced that Dane eventually would follow her, that some physical punishment was unavoidable. And then because she found herself forced to try and sort out her own position, a position that seemed increasingly more precarious.

  But what to do? She still had no money, no job, nowhere to go. In truth, she didn’t even want to go; she wanted to stay and no longer bothered to try and deny that to herself. But not this way, not with Dane angry at her, perhaps even hating her. And not with herself in such a vulnerable position, feeling as she did about a man who couldn’t return her love.

  Long before the sun rose, Helen was wide awake, her eyes smarting from straining through the classified sections of every weekend paper they’d bought the day before. By breakfast time, she’d already done almost a full day’s work; there were six completed job applications neatly stacked in front of her.

  She’d had to force herself to ignore the fact that she wasn’t qualified enough for two of them, was probably over-qualified for another two, and wasn’t professionally interested in either of the remaining two. Personally, yes, but not professionally.

  ‘But it doesn’t matter. Any of them will give me a way out,’ she sighed. And a way out was what she now needed. Desperately. Even, she thought, if it meant moving to Melbourne or Adelaide or even — perish the thought — Sydney. Even if it meant taking a job that would bore her stupid within three weeks.

  The worst problem was that even the application deadlines were at least a week away; it could be a month before all but one of the positions was filled. And in the meantime ...?

  ‘The world could come to an end in the meantime,’ she muttered to herself,

  ‘It could come to an end tomorrow, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it,’ said an unexpectedly pleasant voice behind her. ‘You, on the other hand, look as if you’ve lost plenty,’ Dane said as Helen turned to face him, unsure of whether he mightn’t still be angry.

  ‘Jobs?’ he asked, no trace of last night’s unpleasantness in his voice, but certainly not with a smile, either.

  ‘I ... I really think it’s about time,’ Helen replied, hardly able to meet his gaze.

  ‘Because of last night? Or just generally?’ Damn him for his directness, she thought, a faint blush riding up through the neckline of her robe at his abrupt questions.

  ‘A bit of both, I suppose,’ she replied, trying to keep her voice casual, trying not to make too much out of it.

  ‘Humph! How much of each, I wonder,’ he grunted. ‘And don’t bother to answer that. Just let me say that I hope it’s only a little bit because of last night. Okay, so we had a bit of a blue. People do, you know. Even the most happily ... ah ... the best adjusted people do, sometimes. It sort of goes with the territory. Hell, even Vivian and I had the occasional fight.’

  Helen winced at his use of the name, at the direct link between this morning’s relatively civilised discussion and the abuse-laden atmosphere of the night before. But she couldn’t answer him, didn’t dare to try and put into words the way she felt. Not now.

  Striding over to the kitchen counter, Dane poured each of them a cup of coffee, idly humming to himself as he did so. Then he placed the cups on the table and slid into a chair opposite Helen.

  Lean, tanned fingers reached out to pick up the stack of advertisements, leafing through them as if they were a pack of cards. Helen watched not the hands, but the face of the man who now studied the possible basis of her future plans.

  ‘Rather scraping the bottom of the barrel in places,’ he muttered, lifting his head to search Helen’s face intently. ‘I thought you weren’t rapt in big cities.’

  ‘I’m not rapt in being unemployed forever, either,’ she replied. A bit cockily, considering the circumstances. Dane grinned in recognition of her attitude.

  ‘Being a jillaroo isn’t exactly the same as being unemployed,’ he smiled. ‘Even if it does pay about the same.’

  ‘That isn’t the issue,’ Helen replied, lying just a little. It was the issue, at least in part. She wasn’t a jillaroo, not really. She wasn’t, in truth, anything at all. She had no status but that of a visitor, no matter how Dane thought of her. No longer able even to think of him as a surrogate brother, she found it equally impossible to think of herself as either housekeeper, jillaroo, executive assistant, cook, or anything else. Except perhaps his wife and lover — but Helen’s standards made her want both roles combined; to be only his lover would be too hurtful, and quite impossible if he were to marry again.

  Especially, she thought, if he were to marry Marina Cole. Then her own thoughts were interrupted by that too-familiar voice.

  ‘I’ve just thought of one solution, and have to admit I’m due a licking for not having thought of it sooner,’ Dane was saying. ‘We should have put you on the casual list as soon as you got here, and I should damned well have thought of it. And so should you.’

  ‘So I should,’ Helen admitted, admitting silently to herself that it might have been the ideal solution when she first arrived, but not any more, not permanently. Still, the Australian Journalists’ Association casual list could provide work, perhaps even immediate work, and the temporary nature was no longer an issue.

  ‘No sooner said than done,’ Dane grinned. ‘I’m seeing the AJA secretary at this meeting I have to attend today, so I’ll take care of it for you. And,’ picking up the stack of applications, ‘I’ll drop these in the mail for you while I’m at it.’

  ‘Meetings on a Sunday?’ Helen asked the question without even considering she might be being rudely inquisitive. Dane obviously didn’t think so either, because he explained in some detail the information he was seeking and the need for a weekend meeting to get all the required people together at once.

  ‘And what are you going to do with yourself?’ he asked then, making the question sound as if he had something specific he wanted her to do.

  ‘I thought I’d see if Joshua is going to accept backing,’ Helen replied. ‘He’s really settled down a lot, and doesn’t seem to mind the saddle and all. And it’s a nice day for it; not too much wind to make him all spooky.’

  And she had to grin. It was still a source of great humour to her the way donkeys seemed to go all strange on windy days, running and kicking up their heels as if they were ridden by fairies, or driven by some elemental magic no human could see.

  Dane, however, didn’t grin. ‘And if he dumps you off on your pretty little head, with nobody about to pick you up? No, I think I’d prefer you waited until a day when I can be here.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Helen replied. ‘I’ve been bounced off horses before. P
lenty of times. And apart from a minor scar or two I’m still here.’

  ‘Well we don’t need any more scars,’ he replied grimly, ‘How am I to concentrate on my meeting if I have to be worrying about you all the way through it?’

  ‘Very flattering, but hardly necessary,’ Helen scoffed. ‘That is one place I don’t need anybody worrying about me.’

  ‘That’s not the point and you know it,’ he scowled. And was about to say something else when Helen interrupted.

  ‘It’s exactly the point. Especially if any of these jobs comes up, or something casual is going. Joshua is coming along splendidly, but he needs that bit of work every day. I’m damned if I’m going to leave here with that job half-done, and all my effort wasted.’

  ‘Well just be damned well careful, that’s all.’ And there was a rising note in his voice, a note that said this could easily become more than a tiny disagreement. Helen didn’t have the heart for another fight, not now that they seemed to have cooled down after last night’s blue.

  ‘Oh, I suppose one more day won’t matter,’ she muttered, gulping down the rest of her coffee. It wasn’t a promise, but it might sound like one to him, especially if she managed to change the subject quickly and thoroughly enough. The clock helped, there. ‘And now you’d best get organised, or you’ll be late for your meeting,’ she advised. ‘Do you want me to whip up some breakfast while you’re getting ready?’

  He didn’t, and indeed was out of the house fifteen minutes later, leaving Helen with the option of going back to bed if she chose. It was tempting, too, having barely slept during the night; but not quite tempting enough.

  Her mind was too busy, for one thing. Busy trying to relate Dane’s concerned attitude this morning with his anger of the night before, with his arrogant seduction attempt, and with her own responses.

  Especially, she thought, her own responses. Had Dane Curtis begun making love to her this morning, in a mood of protectiveness instead of dissension, she had little doubt of the outcome. And that worried her; she was simply too vulnerable, had too few defences against her own depth of feeling and his undeniable charm.