Hell Or High Water

by Anne Mather

  ‘But no night life?’

  ‘I—I think there are discotheques,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘But you’ve never been.’

  ‘Not to a discotheque, no.’ Helen shook her head. ‘But I have been to parties where they’ve played disco music,’ she added hastily, feeling a ridiculous compulsion to justify herself, and saw the mocking gleam in his eye. ‘Malverley’s not like London,’ she finished huffily. ‘If you want night clubs and bars and sophisticated entertainment, Malverley’s not the place for you.’

  ‘Did I say I did?’ His eyes narrowed with lazy humour, and she conceded that he had not. ‘No, I was interested, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Interested in how you come to be so—inexperienced.’

  ‘Inexperienced!’ Helen was indignant.

  ‘Yes, inexperienced,’ he repeated firmly. ‘Untouched by human hand!’

  Helen was affronted. ‘I think you’re insolent, Mr Manning,’ she declared hotly, preparing to push back her chair, but the firm grip of his fingers on her arm prevented her from rising.

  ‘Why?’ he said now, holding her eyes with his. ‘Why am I insolent? It’s a compliment, isn’t it, knowing I acknowleged your—innocence?’

  ‘Not the way you say it, Mr Manning,’ she retorted unevenly.‘Will you let go of my arm?’

  ‘Not unless you promise to remain where you are,’ he countered smoothly, and she seethed with indignation.

  ‘What makes you think I’ll do it even if I say I will?’ she demanded, and his mouth twisted wryly.

  ‘Because I don’t think you’d lie to me,’ he replied, releasing her wrist, and she rubbed the flesh defensively as she strove for control.

  ‘You have no right to say such things—to me,’ she got out now, pushing her scarcely-touched coffee cup aside. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home. Will you take me, or shall I call a cab?’

  Jarret sighed, a deep frustrated expellation of his breath. ‘I’ll take you,’ he said, pulling out his cheroots. ‘But can I finish my coffee first?’

  Helen shrugged, but she was loath to make a fool of herself by walking out on him now that the first flush of anger had cooled, so she remained where she was, hands clasped in her lap, inhaling the pungent fragrance of his tobacco.

  ‘Did I understand your mother correctly,’ he asked suddenly, ‘you run a shop here in Malverley?’

  Helen hesitated, and then she nodded, saying briefly: ‘Another girl and I share the running of it.’

  ‘I see.’ He looked at her through the haze of blue smoke. ‘Somehow I imagined you as a lady of leisure.’

  ‘Doing good works and visiting the poor?’ she countered shortly, angered by his assumption, and saw the teasing grin that crossed his face.

  ‘Now that was much more human,’ he assured her approvingly, and she pressed her lips together as she stared down at the table. ‘So where is this shop?’ he pursued, refusing to be daunted, and she lifted her head reluctantly to meet his probing smile.

  ‘Why should I tell you?’ she demanded. ‘You’ll find out soon enough if you live here.’

  ‘If that’s so, what harm is there in telling me?’

  Helen sighed. ‘It’s a craft shop. In the Arcade.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Across the square.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Who is the other partner?’

  ‘A friend of mine, Karen Medley-Smythe.’

  Jarret grinned. ‘Miss Medley-Smythe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Why?’ Helen had had enough of being reticent. ‘Of what possible interest is it to you?’

  Jarret shrugged. ‘Oh, just getting to know my way around. You know—making friends and influencing people!’

  Helen turned her head irritably to stare out of the window. The discouraging trickle of rain all but obscured her view, and she felt a curious sense of depression, out of all proportion to the circumstances. What was the matter with her, letting Jarret Manning get under her skin? He was deliberately trying to provoke her, and she ought to know better than to listen to him.

  ‘Okay—let’s go!’

  Jarret’s summons brought her head round with a start to find him already on his feet. Zipping up her jacket again, she brushed past him on her way to the door, and felt the momentary strength of his body against hers. It was all too reminiscent of that day in the library, when he had shown her exactly how unscrupulous he could be, and the darting look she cast up at his face did nothing to dispel the image. It was as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and was enjoying her discomfiture, and the anger this generated sent her barging across the room with a distinct disregard for anyone else’s safety.

  ‘That was well done,’ Jarret remarked gravely, as he closed the door behind them, but Helen pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘At least three booted ankles and half a dozen bruised ribs, not to mention flooding the place with overturned cups of coffee,’ he added. ‘Yes, I think I can safely say that you’ll be welcome there again.’

  At this Helen’s sense of humour refused to respond to the dictates of her conscience. She found it impossible to keep her face straight, and a bubble of mirth burst from her in choking laughter. She couldn’t help it. It was as if all the tension of the past half hour had been exploded by his words, and she pressed both hands to her cheeks in helpless abandon.

  ‘Did I say something?’

  Jarret viewed her innocently, but she couldn’t answer him. Instead she shook her head weakly, too breathless to reply, and it was several more minutes before her hilarity subsided. Then, wiping her eyes with her fingers, she was once more aware of the rain, and also of how wet they were both getting, standing there in the downpour.

  ‘You’re getting soaked!’ she protested, sniffing to clear her nose, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

  ‘So are you,’ he countered, and she put up a hand to her damp hair before nodding her agreement. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I think we’d better get into the car. I’d hate to be responsible for you catching your death of pneumonia!’

  ‘I’m much tougher than I look,’ she explained, as they half ran across the square to where the Ferrari waited, but the glance he gave her was disbelieving.

  ‘Are you?’ he said, unlocking the car door, and she recognised the scepticism in his tone as she slid inside.

  Seconds later he joined her in the car, breathing deeply from the exertion. With the door closed behind him, he shouldered his way out of his jacket, dropping it on to the low rear seat, and then looked expectantly at her.

  ‘Aren’t you going to do the same?’ he suggested, and although her hostility towards him was only temporarily suspended, she obediently unzipped the jerkin and pushed it off her shoulders. But it wasn’t so easy for her to remove, and without asking her permission Jarret tugged the offending garment down over her arms, making the task that much simpler.

  ‘Thank you.’ Helen pulled her arms free and folded the jacket in her lap. ‘At least it’s warm in here. What lovely spring weather!’

  Jarret took the jacket from her unresisting fingers. ‘A farmer would doubtless say that the crops need it,’ he remarked reprovingly, dropping the jacket into the back with his own. ‘And you—a country girl—should know that.’

  ‘I do—’ she began, and then stopped again as she realised she was taking him too seriously. ‘Oh, well, I don’t have to like the rain, do I? And judging by yourtan, you don’t spend your holidays in this country either!’

  Jarret grimaced. ‘My tan, as you call it, was acquired almost a year ago, in Mexico. And it wasn’t a holiday. I was doing some research at the time, and it was bloody hot for working, I can tell you.’

  Helen managed not to flinch at his choice of adjective, and looped her fingers round one drawn-up knee. ‘Mexico,’ she said. ‘That sounds exciting. How long did you spend there?’

  ‘Three months.’ Jarret shrugged. ‘
It was—interesting. But you wouldn’t have liked it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  A trickle of rainwater began to run down her cheek from her hair, and to her confusion, Jarret wiped the drop away with his finger before answering her. ‘Oh—it was all involved with the seedier side of the Mexican dream,’ he remarked, smoothing his palm down over his thigh. ‘You wouldn’t want to hear about it. It’s far removed from Malverley and the—er—Embassy Tea-rooms.’

  ‘You’re mocking me again!’ she exclaimed, releasing her knee and straightening her spine, and his gaze drooped to the vulnerable curve of her mouth.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said, and his voice was curiously gentle. ‘Only drug smugglers and traffickers seem a long way from garden fêtes and afternoon tea.’

  ‘I’m not naïve, you know,’ she retorted. ‘I am aware of what goes on in the rest of the world. Just because we seem very middle-class and boring to you, it doesn’t mean we bury our heads in the sand!’

  ‘You don’t seem at all boring to me,’ he assured her huskily, and her skin prickled as he put his arm over the back of the seat. But all he did was lift his jacket and extract the case of cheroots from the pocket, and she clasped her hands tightly together as he lit his cigar.

  With the cheroot between his teeth he started the engine and the Ferrari circled the market square before turning on to the road to Thrushfold once more. The rain was easing a little and the wipers kept the windscreen clear, but nevertheless Jarret covered the distance without excessive speed, content to let the powerful pistons dawdle.

  ‘Where do you plan to live after you’re married?’ he asked unexpectedly, and Helen hesitated a moment before replying.

  ‘Charles is buying a house at Ketchley, not far from his parents’ home,’ she yielded at length. ‘It wouldn’t be sensible to live too far from the stables, and I can easily drive into Malverley from there.’

  Jarret crushed the remains of his cheroot in an ashtray. ‘Do I take it you intend to go on working after you’re married?’

  ‘Initially,’ she agreed, not altogether liking his questions. ‘Surely you don’t disapprove, Mr Manning. Isn’t that the modern way of thinking?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He was non-committal. ‘You’re not afraid you may find circumstances altering your plans?’

  Helen held up her head. ‘If you mean am I not concerned that I might start a baby, then no. Charles and I both agree that we can afford to wait a few years, and—and—er—well, I intend to cope with that contingency when the situation requires it.’

  A faint smile touched Jarret’s lips at this, and she guessed he was amused at her rather stilted explanation, but talking about such things to a stranger was not something she was used to, and taking a leaf out of his book, she asked him how long it would take to drive back to London.

  Jarret shrugged then. ‘It depends how congested the roads are,’ he replied. ‘It should take a couple of hours, but I can spend that length of time trying to cross central London.’ He paused. ‘Do you ever come up to town?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Helen was defensive. ‘Mummy and I occasionally go up for a day’s shopping, and before Charles and I were engaged I used to go to shows and exhibitions with Karen.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jarret sounded unimpressed. ‘But not with Charles, I gather.’

  ‘Charles doesn’t like London, Mr Manning.’ Helen could feel her resentment reasserting itself. ‘Not everyone does!’

  ‘Oh, I agree.’ Jarret raised one hand in mock apology. ‘I was just satisfying myself about something.’

  ‘About what?’

  He glanced sideways at her. ‘The kind of relationship you have with your fiancé.’

  ‘The kind of relationship…’ Helen’s voice trailed away. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s not important.’ He peered through the windscreen. ‘This is the turn-off for King’s Green, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, yes.’ Helen was impatient. ‘Are you trying to be offensive, Mr Manning?’

  ‘Offensive? Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’ She licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘What did you mean about my relationship with Charles? I want to know.’

  Jarret sighed. ‘Forget it. I don’t even know the man!’ He turned between the drive gates. ‘At least the rain seems to be passing over. What’s the betting I’ll run into it again on my way back to town?’

  ‘Jarret!’

  In her confusion, she had used his Christian name without thinking, and his mocking expression revealed it had not gone unnoticed. ‘Yes, Helen?’ he responded, quite solemnly, and with a sound of frustration she slumped down in her seat.

  ‘You enjoy aggravating me, don’t you?’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘Why can’t you answer my question? I’ve answered yours.’

  Jarret brought the car to a smooth halt before the porch, and as she struggled to sit up he said: ‘You wouldn’t like my answer. Is that good enough for you?’

  ‘No!’ She reached for her jacket from the back seat, and tugged it on to her knees, straightening the sleeves and keeping the damp outer surface away from her. ‘I’m not a child, Mr Manning. But keep your secrets, if they mean that much to you.’

  ‘They don’t.’ His tone was flat now, and as she reached for the handle of the door he pressed a button that successfully prevented her from opening it. ‘All right, Miss Chase—I was curious what kind of man would let you wear his ring without taking advantage of the facilities it affords him!’

  Helen’s dark brows drew together. ‘The facilities…’ sheechoed faintly, and then comprehension dawned. ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean—you don’t sleep with him, do you, Helen?’ he stated decisively, his eyes narrowing as hers widened. ‘And that’s a terrible waste!’

  Helen could hardly speak. ‘How—how dare you?’

  ‘You asked me,’ he reminded her mildly, and releasing the catch on the doors, he pushed his open and got out.

  It was several seconds before Helen summoned the assurance to join him, and by then he had put on his jacket and disappeared into the house. She found him in the hall, tossing his keys impatiently in his palm, and at her look of outraged bewilderment he explained: ‘Your mother’s given me a key. And as she doesn’t appear to be home, perhaps you’d offer her my apologies, and tell her I’ll see her on Friday.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ she enquired coldly, and with a sigh of resignation he nodded.

  ‘Look,’ he said, as if feeling the need to justify himself, ‘don’t blame me because you didn’t like what I said. I warned you you wouldn’t, remember?’

  Helen balled her fists. ‘You—you had no right to—to speculate about—about such a thing…’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ He shook his head. ‘It happens all the time. Surely I’m entitled to an opinion!’ He stepped in front of her and looked down at her with disturbing candour. ‘I said it was a waste, and it is. You’re beautiful, Helen, and if Charles can’t see that, then he’s more of a fool than I thought. I wouldn’t let you run around without putting my brand upon you, and any man who does is just asking for trouble.’

  Helen took a deep breath. ‘Just—just because you have a distinct lack of morality, you judge everyone else by your own standards. I—I—Charles and I, we have a very good relationship, as it happens. He’s a fine man, and I love him dearly—oh!’

  She broke off abruptly, her words silenced once again by the warm possession of his mouth. As before, he had taken her unawares, but this time there was no anger in his kiss, only a sensuous, searching need for expression, and her knees buckled beneath its probing caress. Sheclutched at him helplessly, her hands finding the rough buckle of his belt, and his hands slid down her back to her hips, arching her towards him. Her lips parted, responding to the hunger he evoked inside her. His arms enfolded her closely against him, her breasts were crushed against the hard muscles of his chest, but through the mists of mindless emotion she was gradually made to feel the unmistakable effect she was having
on him.

  Her mind revolted, and with a superhuman effort she pressed him away from her. ‘Let me go!’ she choked, despising herself, and despising him for making her feel that way, and with a shrug he stepped back. He made no attempt to hide his arousal, running one hand round the back of his neck in faintly rueful self-derision, and she averted her eyes from the sensual reflection of his. He was completely without shame, she thought, mortified by her own behaviour, and furious with him for taking advantage of her.

  ‘Will you please leave!’ she got out at last, realising there was little point in crossing swords with him. He was not ashamed of what he had done, and she would have to bear her disgrace alone.

  But Jarret shook his head now, aware of her feelings and impatient of them. ‘Don’t look so shattered!’ he advised dryly, making no move to go. ‘It wasn’t so terrible, was it? It’s quite normal, I do assure you, particularly in the circumstances.’

  Helen knew she would live to regret it, but she had to ask: ‘What circumstances?’

  Jarret sighed. ‘You’re going to get married. You’ll find out soon enough. Providing that hidebound boy-friend of yours doesn’t make a mess of it.’

  Helen gulped. ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of you!’ exclaimed Jarret in a driven tone. ‘God, don’t you know anything? The way you kiss, I get the feeling you’ve never been aroused before, and God help you if he’s as frigid as I think he is!’

  Helen uttered a sound of outrage. ‘Get out of here, Mr Manning! Get out, do you hear me?’ She almost shouted the words in her distress, and then burned with embarrassment as her mother appeared in the doorway.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘DON’T you want to go home this evening?’

  Karen Medley-Smythe’s drawling voice was puzzled as she stood in the doorway to the small office that backed the showroom. The shop had been closed some fifteen minutes already, and as she herself had transferred the cash from the till to the safe, she could see no reason for her friend to be lingering over the accounts ledger.

  ‘I’ll be leaving presently,’ Helen answered now, hoping the smile she forced to her lips would allay the other girl’s suspicions. ‘I just want to go over these figures again, and then I’ll lock up. You go ahead. I don’t mind.’