had gone with her. She and Simon were alone in the house. His moods had grown worse and uncertain of him, wanting confirmation that he still loved her, she had used her mother’s absence to confront him that evening, going up to him and twining her arms round his neck, silently begging for his kiss. He had jerked away from her she remembered and had then come back to her, kissing her with an angry hunger that half-shocked her, releasing her to demand thickly, ‘What is it you want from me, Christy? This?’ He had kissed her again, forcing her mouth to part, infusing her with an intense heat as his hands moved seductively over her body. She was trembling when he released her she remembered. ‘Or is there a price attached to your love? Is it me you want … really me …’
‘You know I love you,’ she had cried out. She had seen the change in his expression when she mentioned the word ‘love’ but had not understood it—then!
‘Then come to bed with me now,’ he had responded thickly. ‘Come and show me how much you love me.’
She had hesitated, tense and unsure of him all of a sudden. ‘What’s the matter?’ he had demanded harshly, his eyes derisive. ‘Are you sure it’s me you’re in love with or simply the idea of being in love …? Is it me you want, Christy, or simply marriage, because I’m telling you now that marriage simply does not figure in my plans. I’ve got far too much living to do to tie myself down to one woman,’ he had told her brutally. ‘If you want to be part of that living then fine, but I can’t offer you permanency …’
She hadn’t been able to believe her ears. ‘You don’t want me,’ she had cried out childishly in pain.
‘Oh I want you all right.’ Simon’s voice had been curt, hard; his topaz eyes glittering hotly over her skin.
‘But I love you.’
He had laughed then, a harsh bitter sound. ‘What you feel isn’t love,’ he had told her with cruel astringency. ‘It’s physical desire, pure and simple. You haven’t the experience to love anyone, you’re still little more than a baby. Too frightened to live life alone … wanting marriage as a security blanket.’
She had cried out in anguish, hating him for what he was saying to her; for what he was doing to her fragile daydreams. She hadn’t been aware of him walking away, only of her pain.
The next day she had gone out of her way to avoid him, but that night, driven by the tension inside herself, she had gone to his room after he had gone to bed. He had been lying on his side, his skin exposed where he had kicked the bedclothes aside. She had caught her breath at the sight of him, tears stinging her eyes. She did love him … she did. She had crept nearer to the bed, stiffening when his eyes opened. For a moment they had simply looked at one another and then he had sat up, careless of the fact that he was naked. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he had demanded softly.
‘I want you to make love to me.’ She had said it as calmly as she could, her eyes defying him to reject her. If that was the sacrifice demanded of her to prove her love then she was prepared to make it. No doubt she had looked the complete tragic heroine, Christy reflected sardonically now, and that was doubtless the reason for the alien twist of emotion she had seen blaze momentarily in his eyes.
‘Do you now.’ He had pulled her down on to the bed alongside him, his hard, experienced hands dealing efficiently with her nightclothes, his eyes hooded and mysterious as he studied her trembling, naked body in the light through the open windows.
‘Be still my little sacrificial lamb,’ he had murmured to her as he bent towards her. ‘You wanted this—remember?’
His mouth was hot and forceful on her own, his touch drugging her senses, everything else forgotten as he brought her body burningly alive. A wild elation sang in her veins; an overwhelming compulsion urging her forward.
‘I hope you’re remembering that this is only lust,’ he had muttered the words against her mouth and instantly her blood had chilled, her eyes enormous, frozen pools of pain in her pale face.
‘You really don’t love me?’ She had stammered the words, colour stinging her skin as he mocked.
‘No, I really don’t. If I take you now it will be because my body craves yours, that’s all, Christy, and if you’re honest, you’ll admit that it’s the same for you …’
‘No!’ The denial had burst past her lips as she sprang off the bed, all her desire suddenly gone, and a deep sense of humiliation taking its place. She couldn’t remember finding her nightclothes or going back to her own room, but she must have done so. She had cried long into the night, muffling the sound against her pillow, not sure whom she hated the most Simon, or herself. He didn’t love her at all … he had never love her …
It was only pride that enabled her to face him the following morning. She refused his invitation to play tennis, marvelling at his ability to put aside what had happened, ignoring it almost. She could not do so. For the remainder of the duration of his stay she had treated him with a frozen politeness, breaking down only when he had gone, pouring out her pain to her mother.
Georgina had sighed and berated herself for not realising what was happening. ‘Simon is a loner, darling,’ she had told her. ‘He’s also, unfortunately for you, an extremely sexy man. You’ll get over it,’ she had promised, but Christy hadn’t believed her. Not then.
She had of course, but the pain of her humiliation at his hands had left a legacy that still stung. He could have let her down more easily. Realising that she was not going to go back to sleep she got up and showered.
Downstairs the house drowsed in the early morning sun. She went into the kitchen and started to prepare her mother’s breakfast tray. Georgina was normally a late night person, and preferred to have breakfast in bed.
Christy was just pouring water on to the tea when she heard the squeak of the back door. Harry didn’t come on a Thursday and it wasn’t Mrs Carver’s day either. She turned round slowly, her nerve endings prickling warningly as her eyes met those of the man leaning against the kitchen door.
Six years had barely changed him. He was a little thinner perhaps, but his hair was still just as dark, his skin just as tanned, his eyes impossibly golden.
‘Hello, Simon.’
She was pleased that her voice was so even.
‘Still the devoted handmaiden I see.’
‘My mother likes to have breakfast in bed, I like to get up early.’ She kept her voice deliberately neutral. ‘Have you come to see her?’
‘No, I’ve come to see you, as you damn well know. Why won’t you come and work for me?’
‘Why should I?’ She shrugged slim shoulders.
‘Still not forgiven me?’ His mouth twisted derisively, and anger quickened inside her. Her eyebrows arched, her eyes coolly meeting his.
‘What for? Inviting me to share your bed? My dear Simon, I’m old enough now to realise what an accolade that was, especially in view of my own pathetic lack of experience.’
‘Are you?’ His voice was infused with mild irony. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Christy? That given the choice now, you’d choose differently—lust in preference to virtue?’
‘I wasn’t aware that I did make the choice,’ she replied
