by Anne Mather
Resting one foot on the lowest rail, she supported her elbows on the top of the fence, cupping her chin on her knuckles as she gazed blindly into the darkness. If only she hadn’t encouraged Charles to make love to her, she thought wryly, she would not feel so uneasy now. Karen was wrong. Some people needed to be married before they could share a real relationship, and no doubt Charles would have behaved far more sensitively if she had not pretended she wanted him to seduce her. All the same, she could not entirely dispel the thought that perhaps it was she that wasat fault, and the fear that she might be the one who was frigid surfaced.
She had been so intent on her thoughts, she had given no heed to the possibility that she might not be alone. Besides, apart from Jarret and her mother, there was no one else at the house, and she would have heard either of them crunching across the gravelled forecourt. Therefore it was with a sense of real horror that she felt the cold dampness of something brushing against her cheek, and when she lifted her head to encounter dark soulful eyes, she let out a shriek of pure terror. As she threw herself back from the fence, the horse, for that was what she saw it was now, neighed in protest, and she lost her footing and sat down with a bump on the stony ground.
There was the sound of someone coming now, she realised, as she probed her bruised rear with a gentle hand, and she lifted her head to voice her complaints as Jarret strode up to her. He was still wearing the denim pants he had been wearing earlier, but he had shed his jacket and his tie, and unbuttoned the neck and sleeves of his shirt, and in the filtering moonlight he looked dark and vengeful.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded, hauling her up with no evidence of sympathy, assured by her belligerent expression that she was all right. He moved to the fence then, calming the animal with soothing noises, and then turned back to her again, as she brushed the dust from her pants. ‘Screaming like that!’ he muttered, anger giving way to impatience as he succeeded in controlling himself. ‘I thought someone had attacked you. I might have realised you’d shout before you were hurt!’
‘I am hurt,’ she protested, gazing up at him infuriatedly. ‘And where has that animal come from? We don’t have any horses at King’s Green. Is it yours? Did you put it there? You have no right to graze an animal in our paddock without first gaining permission!’
‘I have permission,’ he retorted flatly. ‘Your mother granted it. And naturally, I assumed she’d told you.’
‘Well, she didn’t.’
‘Obviously not. And I’m sorry, if that’s any consolation. But I didn’t know you were going to go mooching about the paddock at this time of night, did I? Where’s thatdamned fiancé of yours? Charles—what’s his name? I thought you and he were spending the evening together.’
‘His name is Charles Connaught, as you very well know. And we have spent the evening together. This just happens to be the night, or hadn’t you noticed?’
Jarret shook his head. ‘I don’t call ten-thirty night, but if you do, that’s your affair. Anyway, you’re not really hurt, are you? Only your pride. What happened? Did he make a pass at you?’
Helen pursed her lips as they walked back to the house. ‘He—he touched my cheek,’ she admitted, shuddering at the recollection. ‘And I don’t like horses, Mr Manning. I—I never have. And I wasn’t mooching about the paddock, I was just leaning on the fence.’
Jarret nodded. ‘Your mother told me you were afraid of animals—’
‘Not animals. Just horses.’
‘—but I guess part of that is due to ignorance.’
‘Ignorance?’ Helen glanced at him as they entered the lighted hall, and the sound of his record deck came flooding clearly through the open library door. ‘You have a cheek!’
‘I mean it.’ Jarret was indifferent to her objections. ‘No one need be afraid of anything they know about and understand. If you like I’ll introduce you to him properly tomorrow, and who knows, maybe you’ll get to like him.’
Helen shivered. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘As you like,’ Jarret shrugged, and strolled towards the door of his room. ‘By the way, your mother is out. She left a message with Mrs Hetherington. She was invited to a bridge evening at the vicarage, and she’s not back yet.’ He paused in the doorway, his expression wry. ‘Apparently she hasn’t realised how late it is!’
Helen pursed her lips. He was mocking her again, and with a sigh she turned away towards the kitchen. She would make herself a cup of something hot and take it up to bed. She had a new paperback that she wanted to read, and she didn’t feel particularly tired.
‘Are you hungry?’
Jarret’s query halted her and she turned back. ‘A little,’ she admitted cautiously, and he indicated the room behind him.
‘Mrs Hetherington supplied me with a tray of coffee and sandwiches before she retired for the night. She seems to think I’m in some need of fortification. Anyway, you’re welcome to share them, if you want to. Despite Mrs H’s beliefs, I’m not hungry.’
‘She just likes making a fuss of you,’ Helen conceded, with an expressive wave of her hands.
‘It’s as well someone does,’ he commented dryly, and she glimpsed a momentary vulnerability in his unguarded eyes.
Helen hesitated. ‘I—er—I will share your sandwiches, if you don’t mind,’ she said, giving in rather rashly to a feeling of sympathy for him, that as the door closed behind her was quickly dissipated. But she was too worked up to go to bed yet, and the idea of being alone with her troubled thoughts held no temptation for her.
‘Good,’ was all he replied, and after she had entered the lamplit library, he closed the door behind them with a definite click.
She had not been into this room since his occupation, and now she looked about her with genuine interest. The desk was obviously where he did most of his work, and apart from the typewriter and a pile of manuscript, there were notepads and reference books, and various rubbers and pencils. Beside the desk were boxes of typescript and carbon paper, and rolls of ribbon for the powerful-looking machine, as well as a tape-recorder and spools of cassettes, and an overflowing wastepaper basket.
The music she had heard was coming from an expensive-looking record deck, and now she could see that he had installed speakers at either end of the bookshelves, which accounted for the high fidelity quality of the reproduction. There was an enormous pile of long-playing records, and a smaller one of singles, and the sound that was presently emanating from the speakers was one of her favourites of the moment.
‘Billy Joel,’ she said, indicating the empty sleeve. ‘I have one of his singles. Even Charles—well, I mean—my fiancé—likes his music,’ she finished lamely.
Jarret nodded, making no comment, indicating the tray of sandwiches on the table by the empty fireplace, silently offering her the food. Helen thanked him, and helped herselfto one of Mrs Hetherington’s turkey sandwiches, perching on the edge of one of the armchairs that flanked the fireplace, munching rather nervously as he crossed the room and abruptly silenced the record player.
‘Oh, don’t do that!’ she protested, half turning in her seat to look at him, but the expression on his face caused her to shut her mouth.
‘I feel like something else,’ he explained shortly, replacing Billy Joel with the haunting inflection of the Carpenters, and Helen hugged her knees as she recognised another favourite of hers.
‘So tell me,’ he said at last, propping his hips against the desk. ‘How was your evening? Am I wrong, or do I detect a certain restraint in your attitude towards your worthy fiancé?’
Helen flushed. ‘You’re wrong!’ she answered at once, reaching for another sandwich, even though she wanted to run from his questions. ‘Charles and I had a very pleasant evening, thank you.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Is that why you’ve got that ugly mark on your neck? Or is Horatio responsible for that?’
Helen’s hand went automatically to her throat, and with trembling fingers she felt the tell-t
ale scar Charles’s teeth had left. It was horrible to think he had left his mark on her like this, and she could imagine what Jarret must be thinking.
With burning cheeks, she faltered: ‘Hor-Horatio? Who—who—’
‘The monster in the paddock,’ Jarret remarked flatly. ‘Old Horatio. You know—the warhorse?’
‘Oh…’ Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth, replacing the half eaten sandwich on the tray. ‘Is—is that his name?’
‘It’s my name for him,’ agreed Jarret. ‘So? I don’t believe he would attack a lady. That isn’t Horatio’s way.’
‘He didn’t. That is—’ Helen broke off awkwardly, and got to her feet. ‘I—I think I’d better be going. It—it is quite late, and—and Mummy will be home shortly.’
Jarret straightened from the desk and stepped into her path. ‘It’s not that late,’ he averred quietly. ‘And you were in no hurry to go to bed until a few moments ago. What’sthe matter? Did I touch on a sore spot? I’m sorry. I didn’t know you—er—went in for that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t.’ Helen’s face blazed, but unable to sustain that cold blue gaze, she bent her head to stare unseeingly at the Oriental pattern of the carpet. ‘Thank you for the sandwiches, but I really must be going…’
‘If I thought he’d hurt you—’ muttered Jarret, his hand curving unexpectedly over the line of her jaw, hiding the unsightly contusion with his fingers, and Helen’s whole body stiffened. ‘Relax,’ he said, exerting the lightest of pressures to draw her towards him, and as the music changed to a poignant rhythm, added: ‘Dance with me…’
Helen’s anxious eyes sought his and what she found there seemed to melt her resistance. Almost hypnotically, she allowed him to draw her into his arms, to rest his chin against her temple and envelop her in a warm embrace.
It was hardly dancing. They scarcely moved around the confined circle of carpet, but it was an excuse for him to hold her in his arms, and although she knew she was crazy to allow it, her overheated senses repudiated any denial. After Charles’s abrasive conduct, it was almost comforting to succumb to such an undemanding attachment, and she badly needed to be reassured on that score.
At one point his hands shifted from the small of her back, sliding under the jacket of her suit to spread against the thin silk of her shirt. Her flesh tingled at the awareness of how narrow was the barrier between her skin and his, but when a few moments later he separated the shirt from her pants and probed the cool hollow of her spine, she felt no sense of embarrassment. She did know she ought to protest, that she ought to tell him he had no right to touch her so familiarly, but the music was seducing her, drugging her with feeling, arousing emotions that Charles in his ham-fisted fashion could never have inspired.
Her arms were around his neck, her fingers coiled in the silky hair that grew on his nape, and she was overwhelmingly conscious of the smooth skin beneath that roughened surface. He smelled so good, she thought, a mingling of shaving cream and lotion, of body heat and his musky male odour that filled her nostrils like some enervating intoxicant, and made her weak with longings she didn’t know howto fulfil. She only knew her breasts were hard where they were crushed against his chest, and there was a curious aching feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Jarret lowered his head to her shoulder suddenly, turning his lips against her neck, and saying huskily: ‘He tried to make love to you, didn’t he?’ and when she automatically started to protest, he went on: ‘What happened? Did he go at that like a bull at a gate, too? I guess he would. He has about as much sensitivity as a rhinoceros!’
Helen succeeded in drawing back from him sufficiently to look into his face, and her own was flushed and indignant. ‘You have no right to say such things!’ she exclaimed unsteadily. ‘You don’t know what he’s like.’
‘I can hazard a guess—’
‘And you’d be wrong!’
‘Would I?’ Jarret did not sound convinced. ‘Okay, so I’m wrong. Forget it. Let’s dance.’
‘No!’
‘Why not? Is there something you would rather do?’ The blue eyes were soft and lazy, and looking into their infinite depths was like drowning. Helen was overwhelmingly conscious of their situation—of the lamplit room, of Jarret’s hands lightly gripping her waist, of his shirt half open down his chest, and the instinctive awareness of her own response to him. Why hadn’t it been like this with Charles? she asked herself despairingly. Why couldn’t it have been him who made her feel so breathless, so weak at the knees, so ridiculously aware of her own sex and its fulfilment?
As it was, she was betraying everything she had ever believed in by letting Jarret hold her at all. And of course, he knew exactly how to arouse her. Unlike Charles, who had saved himself for the woman he loved, the woman he intended to make his wife, Jarret Manning had experimented wherever the opportunity presented itself, and it was this experience she was confusing with sensitivity.
‘I must go,’ she said quickly, trying to turn away, but the hands which only moments before had been holding her so lightly now tightened their grasp.
‘Not yet.’ Jarret’s eyes dropped from hers to her mouth, and then lower to the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I—I don’t think it’s talking you want, Mr Manning,’ Helen got out chokily, and then pressed her lips together frustratedly as his curved into a sardonic smile.
‘Really?’ he mocked. ‘So tell me—what do I want?’
‘Oh, Jarret, please…’ She couldn’t stand much more of this double talking. ‘I have to go. Save your line in seduction for—for Vivien and—and Margot. I—I already have a boy-friend.’
‘A boy-friend!’ he echoed huskily, his hands moving up over her rib-cage to rest just below her breasts. ‘Oh, Helen, you really are an old-fashioned girl, aren’t you?’
‘Please—’ She despised herself for pleading with him, but she had to save her self-respect. ‘Let me go, Jarret. Don’t make me hate you!’
She thought he was going to ignore her, and for several seconds the erratic beat of her heart was suspended. But then, with a muffled oath, he released her, turning away to push both hands through the hair at his temples, extending the gesture into a weary flexing of his shoulder muscles.
Helen swallowed the panic in her throat, and with trembling fingers pushed her shirt back into the waistband of her pants. She felt exhausted, and in spite of her relief that he had let her go, strangely deflated, too. The inconsistencies of her own feelings were a constant source of anxiety to her, and although only minutes before she had desperately wanted to get away, now she was curiously reluctant to leave him. As he turned back to look at her, her heart wrenched inside her, and the dark torment in his eyes was more than she could bear.
‘Oh, Jarret—’ she breathed, hardly aware of covering the space between them, but when his hands sought the soft flesh of her upper arms and pulled her towards him, she knew there was no drawing back.
Her mouth parted under his without conscious volition. If she was subconsciously aware that Jarret’s lips were just as demanding as Charles’s had been, she also knew that there the similarity ended. With Charles there had been only a selfish need to satisfy his own ambitions, whereas Jarret took her with him every step of the way, coaxing a smouldering response that inevitably ignited into a burning passion. She had been unaware of her own sensuality, butnow an instinctive reaction had taken over, so that she responded to his kisses without constraint, arching her body against his, promoting an intimacy between them that she had never known before with any man.
‘God—Helen!’ he muttered once, lifting his mouth from hers, but she went after him with her lips, seeking and finding their target, and his brief moment of withdrawal was stifled by his own urgent needs.
She felt his fingers between them, loosening the buttons of her shirt, exposing her pointed breasts to his narrow-eyed appraisal, and almost intuitively she tugged his shirt apart and pressed herself against him. Her whole body felt
on fire, awash with a yearning longing to feel his flesh against hers, and his moan of satisfaction was uttered against her mouth.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he muttered, ‘but you don’t know what you’re doing to me—’
‘I know what you’re doing to me,’ she countered, and his groan of protest was half rueful.
‘What am I doing?’ he breathed, and her tongue appeared in unknowing provocation.
‘You make me—want you,’ she whispered, hardly understanding what she was saying, and she felt the shudder that ran through him as he buried his face in the hollow of her neck.
‘I want you,’ he conceded in a smothered voice, and she pressed herself closer, feeling the stirring muscles against her thigh.
‘I—I never knew it could be like this,’ she confessed, half wonderingly, and his mouth parted hungrily over hers.
Almost without her being aware of it, he had drawn her down on to one of the huge velvet armchairs, and now its softness enveloped them like a cushioned embrace. She was half on his knees, half crushed against the corner of the chair, the silky texture of the upholstery sensuous against her naked flesh.
‘Let me look at you,’ he insisted, sliding the concealing folds of her shirt from her shoulders, and an aching longing to please him swept over her. ‘I want to taste every inch of you,’ he muttered, caressing the tilted curve of her breast, his voice thickening as he pulled her hands down tohis body, encouraging her to give in to the impulses she had to explore him as he was exploring her. She had never felt this way before, never felt any particular curiosity about Charles whatsoever, but it was different with Jarret. His lean brown body fascinated her, and she wanted to touch him just as much as she wanted him to touch her. His skin was taut and smooth, hard and muscled, and not as hairy as Charles’s coarser flesh.
