by Susan Napier
He made it sound like an idle impulse but what reason would he have for driving north from Whitefield? He didn’t strike her as a man with sightseeing on his mind. That only left one alternative.
‘You said I could have the afternoon off,’ she challenged.
‘I suggested we take the afternoon off,’ he corrected gently. ‘And you snuck away to hide as soon as my back was turned.’
‘I’m not hiding. I just wanted to—to get some fresh air and stretch my legs,’ she invented wildly.
Ever since that electric encounter two weeks ago she had been attempting to put a physical distance between them that he had been equally determined to thwart. One night, to her fury, he had invited Richard and his mother to dinner and commanded Vanessa to act as his hostess. She had been forced to smile and act cool and unruffled by his teasing casualness while underneath she had simmered with a temper that had given an unaccustomed sparkle to her looks and prompted some searching glances from Mrs Wells. She couldn’t help but be aware, seeing Richard and Benedict together, how dramatically different they were, like light and shadow, day and night, and unfortunately a primitive part of her was far more fascinated by the powerful lure of the hidden and forbidden than the mellow sunshine.
To her further dismay, during dinner Richard had let the cat out of the bag about the work she was doing for Judge Seaton’s publisher, completing the book about the colourful history of Thames that he had been working on at the time of his death. Richard had cheerfully recounted the difficulties she had had trying to collate and compress boxes of copious notes and sort through half-scribbled ideas in her spare time and somehow by the end of the meal Vanessa had found that she had been neatly manoeuvred into accepting Benedict’s help.
Since then much of her spare time had been spent cheek by jowl with Benedict at the library desk, resolutely trying to treat him like a block of wood while deeply chagrined to realise that his unwelcome expertise was indeed making the book progress much faster.
‘Precisely my plan,’ he said smugly now. ‘We can stretch our legs together. Exercise is boring without company, don’t you think?’
‘No.’
He regarded her truculent glare with amusement. ‘Well, in that case you just carry on by yourself and I’ll keep a discreet distance behind.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous—!’
‘It’s not me who’s being ridiculous, Vanessa,’ he said gently. ‘What did you think I intended when I suggested you and I play hooky today?’
Vanessa turned away but he had already seen her blush. ‘Do I have to tell you my thoughts now? Aren’t I entitled to any privacy at all?’ she demanded fiercely.
‘You can have all you want. I haven’t brought my thumbscrews with me. In fact, have I ever forced a confidence out of you, Vanessa?’
‘You’re always doing it!’ she countered explosively.
‘Ah, but by stealth, never by force.’
She gave him a look of immense frustration, aware that he was right. While they had been closeted together over the judge’s disordered manuscript she had revealed far more about herself than she had intended, since talking about herself was the only proven way of stemming his tide of threatening confidences about himself.
She didn’t want to be lured into curiosity about the velvety-dark contradictions of his character. She certainly didn’t want to know that he had worn glasses since he was twelve years old, and that they had fogged up when he had received his first French kiss from a girl when he was fifteen...although she had found herself thinking that perhaps that explained why he had taken them off when he had kissed her!
She didn’t want to know those other things about him that touched her heart: that his childhood had been restricted by parental expectations to the point of oppression—an imperious father whose rigid, exacting standards of excellence had raised his son to expect nothing less of himself than perfection and a mother whose social expectations of him had been every bit as stringent and repressive. One didn’t express emotions openly in the Savage family circle, one acted with dignity at all times. One doled out affection when it was earned by correct behaviour or academic excellence.
Benedict had learned the lessons of his early childhood well. On the surface he had been the perfect son. He had never rebelled as a teenager, he had performed to expectation at school and at home. He had dutifully joined his father’s architectural firm when he had graduated from university and carried on the conservative family tradition, regarding homes and possessions and even people as profitable investments rather than emotional attachments.
Underneath, though, other forces had been at work, the intellectual curiosity and ruthlessly competitive ambition that his father had relentlessly encouraged constantly thwarted by the restrictions imposed by his status within the firm. As the years had passed he’d come to realise that his father’s expectations for him, far from being infinite, were quite claustrophobically finite—the pinnacle of Benedict’s professional success was to be the inheritance of the company when his father retired and his duty then would be the continuation of the Savage dynasty.
By the age of twenty-eight, Benedict had come to a full recognition that he was not the man his father wanted him to be, and never would be. He wanted more and he wanted it on his own terms.
The split had been achieved with customary Savage dignity, a frigid debate in which both men had obdurately refused to compromise. No emotional outbursts, no public washing of dirty linen, merely a cleverly managed PR announcement that had poured cold water on the choice rumours of a family rift. Benedict had continued to see his parents occasionally on a social basis, although he was left in no doubt from his mother that she was deeply disappointed in him and would deny him the warmth of her approval until he had got over his childish fit of rebellion against his father and returned to the family fold.
Benedict had commented wryly that since his mother’s approval was never very warm anyway he could live comfortably without it.
However, understanding him more didn’t make him any easier for Vanessa to deal with.
‘I think I’ve had enough fresh air now,’ she said desperately, and began to march back down the way she’d come.
Predictably, Benedict matched her stride for stride but he was watching her instead of his footing and a rock shifted beneath his leather shoe, causing him to skid off into a small hollow of sea-water, soaking the cuff of his black trousers.
Vanessa, whose hand had darted out instinctively when he stumbled, snatched it away hastily as he smiled warmly at her in gratitude.
‘Thank you, Nessa.’
‘Walking over rocks in shoes like that is asking for trouble,’ she said, quickening her gait to escape the potency of that stunning smile. ‘And now I’ll have to send those trousers to be dry-cleaned. Why didn’t you wear something practical, like jeans?’
‘I didn’t know what we were going to be doing,’ he said equably. ‘And I don’t own any jeans.’
That seemed so inconceivable to one of her generation that she stared at him in wonder. ‘What do you relax in?’ Then she remembered who it was she was talking to. ‘Oh, yes, that’s right; you don’t have time to relax.’
‘Until now there was no need,’ he commented. ‘Perhaps you can teach me to relax, Vanessa.’
She ignored him, remaining stubbornly silent until she reached the car. There she halted, frowning as she saw a vaguely familiar wicker hamper sitting by the front wheel.
‘Where did that come from?’
‘Kate. It’s a picnic.’
‘Picnic?’
‘Kate said you told her you were going to the beach and then took off before she could pack you some lunch. She said you often had sandwiches on the beach when the weather was fine. She thought you might have had things on your mind and just forgot to ask.’
Vanessa cursed the over-developed sense of responsibility that had made it impossible for her to take off without letting someone know where she could be found
. However, she welcomed the realisation that the hollowness in the region of her stomach might not be entirely due to Benedict’s unsettling effect on her nervous system.
‘I’m not hungry.’
His look was one of amused scepticism. ‘Well, I am, so you can just sit and watch me eat before we go.’
‘We?’ She suddenly noticed that hers was the only car parked along the whole foreshore. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘One of the plasterers dropped me off. He lives at Tapu and was going home for lunch.’
‘You took a lot for granted, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t think you’d be callous enough to drive off and leave your employer stranded.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘Your paranoia is showing. For goodness’ sake, Vanessa, what do you think I can do to you on a public beach?’
He picked up the hamper and began walking towards a huge, twisted pohutukawa tree whose gnarled branches overhung a steep grassy bank below the curve of the road. After a moment she reluctantly followed.
By the time she reached him, deliberately dawdling, Benedict had shaken out a blanket over the long, springy grass.
‘I hope you’re not going to loom over me the whole time I eat. Sit down. Learn to relax, Vanessa,’ he mocked as he sat down on the blanket and shrugged out of his jacket before beginning to rustle about in the hamper.
She sat, and was instantly aware of a strange sense of isolation. With their combined weight the blanket was compressed startlingly deep into the surrounding grasses so that only the sea down the slope directly in front of them remained open to their view. They were totally private from the rest of the beach and the road above. It was also surprisingly warm out of the direct bite of the wind, so warm that Vanessa unzipped her parka and peeled it off, straightening her fleecy grey angora cardigan as she did so.
‘Just like a cosy little nest in here, isn’t it?’ Benedict murmured, echoing her thoughts with unnerving accuracy. ‘And look at you. Downy as a young chick. Would you like coffee or champagne?’
She looked at the cut-crystal glass and Royal Doulton cup he was offering, and then at the silver cutlery and starched white linen napkins he had laid on the undulating surface of the blanket. Nothing but the best for Benedict Savage. Always.
‘Coffee, please,’ she said primly.
‘That’s right, must keep a clear head,’ he said blandly, producing a stainless-steel Thermos flask and pouring a steaming stream of coffee into the cup. ‘Milk and sugar, m’lady?’
‘No, thank you.’
He handed her a cup and poured one for himself before unwrapping some of the food, which was far more practical than the luxury accoutrements, thought Vanessa in amusement. Kate knew what made a good picnic, no matter how wealthy you were: bacon-and-egg pie; marinated cold chicken; creamy, golden New Zealand cheddar; thick, crusty home-made bread and pickles that Vanessa remembered helping to bottle.
‘It’s rather disconcerting to realise that while I have to ask you the simplest things about your likes and dislikes you know everything about mine,’ murmured Benedict, watching her sip her coffee.
‘Hardly everything,’ Vanessa contested automatically.
‘Still, I feel at a disadvantage.’
As a victory it was a vitally unimportant one but the knowledge that he might feel in any way insecure was a pleasing one. She couldn’t help a slightly smug smile as she said lightly, ‘Well, now you know how I take my coffee.’
He regarded the infinitesimal lowering of her guard blandly. ‘Mmm... You may as well have something to eat, too, even though I know you’re not hungry.’
Since she had been practically drooling over the array of food he had spread before her she didn’t bother to protest as he cut the bacon-and-egg pie with a chased-silver knife and transferred wedges on to two plates. With a little flourish he snapped out a napkin and leaned over to drape it across her thighs before handing her the plate. ‘Do you think I’d make a good butler?’ he asked, tongue-in-cheek.
She was startled into uttering the truth. ‘God, no!’
‘That was very emphatic.’ He stretched out on his side, propped up on one arm, munching at his portion of pie. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not...you’re too—’ She stopped, wondering how much her opinion of his character was going to be given away.
‘Not what? Too what?’
‘Too old.’
He stopped chewing.
‘The hell I am!’
Not liking the gleam in his eye that accompanied the growl, Vanessa hastened to clarify. ‘Too old to change, I mean. You’re used to having everything your own way. I can’t see you taking orders without arguing—’
‘Are we talking about you or me here?’ he interrupted sarcastically. ‘I’m an architect; I take orders from my clients every day—’
‘I rather got the impression that you only took the orders that you wanted to take,’ said Vanessa drily. ‘Isn’t that why you left your father’s firm? Face it, you just couldn’t cut it in a job that requires you to be constantly deferential. You have to run things, to be in charge. You wouldn’t even know where your forelock was, let alone how to tug it!’
‘I haven’t noticed you being particularly deferential. And since when have I asked for any forelock-tugging from my employees?’
He seemed genuinely pained and she was quick to point out tartly, ‘You give me time off and then expect me to be meekly at your beck and call!’
He gave her a grim smile. ‘Meekly, no—I’m not that much of an optimist. But if you really didn’t want to be here with me now, Vanessa, you would have driven off and left me in a cloud of dust. But you didn’t. And don’t tell me that it was mere deference to my authority. Your thumb your nose at that when it suits you. When we get down to the nitty gritty, this is between Benedict and Vanessa, man and woman, not employer and employee.’
Vanessa gave him a haughty look. ‘I really don’t want—’
‘Yes, you do. You want me and you’re afraid of it. You’re afraid it makes you vulnerable. Well, hell, men are vulnerable too. Much more so. We can’t hide the fact that we find a woman exciting. Look at me, do you think I like having such little self-control...?’
He indicated his body with an impatient sweep of his hand from shoulder to hip. Not understanding his reference, Vanessa followed the gesture to its obvious conclusion and felt herself flushing at the sight of his blatant masculinity, her eyes jerking back to his sardonic expression.
‘Embarrassed? Think of how I feel!’
She did and her blush deepened. He gave a barking laugh. ‘Yes, well, I admit it’s not all bad. In fact...’ his drawl took on a husky note ‘...some of it is pretty damned good. The question is, what are we going to do about it?’
‘We’re not going to do anything,’ said Vanessa shakily, scrabbling for her battered defences. ‘And if you think that you can use sexual harassment to—’
‘Sexual harassment!’ He jack-knifed to a sitting position, cursing fiercely as coffee spilled across his thigh. He wiped the stain carelessly with the sleeve of his sweater as he continued harshly, ‘What in the hell are you talking about?’
‘About you using your...your position to...to threaten me—’
‘Any threats are in your own mixed-up little mind.’ She realised that this time he was genuinely angry and becoming more so with every word he uttered. ‘Why should the fact that you work for me have any bearing on the fact that we find each other attractive? So I went off my head a little at first—I think I was entitled, don’t you? Did I ever say I’d fire you if you don’t have sex with me?’
‘No, but—’
‘No. I said precisely the opposite, didn’t I? And have I touched you sexually against your will?’
He had hardly touched her at all in the past two weeks; that was what had made her so acutely aware of him...the fact that he was making such an obvious effort not to touch her. The fact that she had found h
erself looking at his hands and his mouth and remembering, wondering...
‘No, but—’
‘Have I made suggestive comments to you while we’ve been working on that damned book? Have I been anything but casual and friendly?’
‘No, but—’
‘But what? I’ve been walking on damned eggshells around you so as not to frighten you off, to give you a chance to get to know me as a whole person, and now you accuse me of sexual harassment? My God, do you really think I’m that bloody desperate? That despicable?’
He was shouting. Cool, contained Benedict Savage was shouting at her. And swearing like an explosive teenager.
‘No, of course not,’ she admitted weakly.
‘Then would you mind telling me what exactly it is that I do that makes you feel so quiveringly helpless before my slavering lust?’ He raked a look down her body that made her feel hot all over.
‘It’s that!’ she blurted out desperately. ‘The way you look at me.’
There was a shivering silence. Then, ‘Look? So even looking’s forbidden now? I think you’ll have to be a bit more precise, Vanessa.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it—’
‘Neither do I!’
Suddenly he was no longer sitting on the other side of the blanket. With a lithe movement he lunged across the clutter between them, upsetting plates and scattering food as he came down over her, straddling her body on his braced arms and knees as she collapsed backwards in shock. ‘I’d much rather do something about it!’
‘Stop it!’ she panted, pushing both hands against his chest, holding him at bay.
‘Who am I?’
She blinked at him, startled, the nimbus of light around his head making it difficult for her to see his expression. ‘What?’
‘My name—who am I?’ he demanded, allowing her the illusion of being able to keep him at arm’s length as he hovered over her. ‘You don’t call me sir any more and you can’t quite bring yourself to say Mr Savage either. But you refuse to call me Benedict. I don’t like being a nobody. So why don’t you try Ben? You called me that once before, remember? Short, sweet and intimate. Try it. Say Ben, Vanessa.’
