Vacation with a Commanding Stranger

by Penny Jordan

  ‘Haven’t you any more sense than to come creeping up on someone like that?’ she demanded. ‘I could have fallen in…’

  ‘By the look of you, you already have,’ he retorted crisply, and before Livvy could stop him he lifted one hand from her waist and ran it experimentally down her still damp side. The touch of his fingers, of his palm against the curve of her buttock and then the sensitive skin of her thigh, no matter how non-sexual it was intended to be, brought an outraged protest to her lips, and a rash of equally shocked goose-flesh to her skin; the shiver that ran up her spine lifted the tiny blonde hairs upwards in stiff, outraged reaction.

  For a moment she was acutely aware of the contrast between them: of him, his body male and hard, clad in a dark cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled back to reveal brown, sinewy forearms, his jeans equally dark, an alien male figure bathed in black and gold against the sun, while in contrast she stood half-naked before him, her skin soft and pale, vulnerable to his view, and to his touch.

  He seemed to sense something of what she was feeling because immediately he released her, frowning as he asked her, ‘What were you doing…?’

  ‘Tickling trout,’ she told him, her chin lifting as she saw first the surprise and then the amusement lightening his expression.

  ‘What? I don’t suppose it occurred to you that it might be easier to use a rod and line?’ He was openly mocking her now.

  ‘If I had one, I suppose I might, although I was taught that it requires far more skill to land the fish with one’s bare hands than to bait a hook and simply wait for it to impale itself…’

  She saw his eyebrows rise.

  ‘I think there’s a large lobby of fishermen who would take umbrage with you at such a denigration of their skills,’ he told her drily.

  He was still watching her, but there was curiosity in his gaze now, curiosity and interest.

  ‘You like fishing?’ he asked her, almost as though he was expecting her to deny it.

  ‘Yes,’ she told him, and then admitted honestly, ‘but only if I can put the fish back alive. My grandfather used to get very cross with me for refusing to eat what we caught. And even now I’m still not overfond of trout.’

  ‘Your grandfather?’

  ‘Mmm… He taught me…all of us…he and my grandmother.’ She paused, frowning. Why was she telling him this? He couldn’t really be interested. She turned away from him, but her still damp foot slipped on a piece of moss. As she felt herself start to fall backwards, she cried out. Instantly, Richard reached for her, dragging her back from the edge of the overhang, swinging her away from it and into his arms.

  Immediately, she froze.

  It was the worst, the most betraying thing she could have done, she acknowledged a heartbeat of time later, as she looked up into his face and saw the expression in his eyes.

  Impossible for him not to be aware of the reason for that brief shudder which had ripped through her body, for him not to have recognised the sexual orientation, for him not to be able to see as clearly as she could feel that beneath her thin shirt her nipples were hard with arousal and that the reason her heart was beating so fast had nothing at all to do with the shock of almost falling into the river and everything to do with the fact that she was standing so close to him.

  She watched motionless, her eyes blind with shocked self-knowledge as he slowly lowered his head. Her tongue-tip touched her lips. She gave a small, aching sigh.

  ‘Olivia…’

  She heard him say her name, felt the warmth of his breath whispering against her lips, her body quivered, and then somewhere behind them in the trees a bird made a noisy shriek of protest.

  Immediately the realisation of what she was doing, of what she was inviting jolted through her, and Livvy pulled back from him, her face on fire with shock and guilt.

  It came as no surprise that he let her go immediately. What on earth had come over her? she asked herself as she hurried away from him to where she had left her jeans and trainers. Thank goodness that bird had disturbed them when it had… Otherwise…

  Otherwise… She gave a small shudder, fiercely clamping down on the images her mind was taunting her with.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHAT on earth was happening to her? Livvy fumed helplessly as she rubbed her damp hair dry and then reached for her hairdryer; her face flamed as she recalled the scene by the river’s edge. Why, oh, why had she given in to that ridiculously childish impulse to strip off and resurrect that old childhood pleasure?

  No wonder Richard had looked at her the way he had. He must have thought she had taken leave of her senses. Either that, or… Her flush deepened, a dazed, helpless look darkening her eyes and softening her expression. Her lips parted slightly as her heart missed a small beat and then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and instantly banished that dangerous, weakening feeling.

  Later, dressed, her hair plaited, thankful to discover that she had the kitchen to herself, she took herself severely to task.

  It simply would not do, this idiotic foolishness…this dangerous and reprehensible awareness of Richard Field as a man…a very male man…a man to whom, for some unfathomable reason, she was dangerously attracted.

  Attracted to Richard Field…her? Impossible. Surely she was far too sensible, had her feet planted far too firmly and safely on the ground to allow her emotions or her body to be swayed by a man who her brain told her had none of the qualities she really admired.

  Look at his attitude towards women for a start. She frowned as she placed a large pile of books she had brought downstairs with her on the kitchen table. She had come here to the Dordogne to work as well as relax. Whether or not she decided to take up the school’s offer of promotion, she still had next term’s work to prepare.

  The head had demurred at first when she had suggested French conversation classes, but Livvy’s enthusiasm had brought him round and he had been generous in his praise at the end of the school year when it had been obvious that the conversation classes had had a beneficial effect on her pupil’s grammatical grasp of the French language.

  Next term, Livvy had planned to take her more advanced pupils a step further forward, initially planning to set them modern French novels to read, but after consideration changing her plans and substituting instead French film videos.

  It was no use expecting a class of modern fourteen-year-olds to wax enthusiastic over the French classics, she acknowledged, no matter how much she would have enjoyed re-reading them, which was why she had bought herself a selection of the more popular French paperbacks to read over the holidays.

  Right now, though, what she wanted to do was to sit down and do some work on the things she wanted to cover during the next term, the first of the new school year.

  And thinking about Richard Field and the way he had held her, the way she had felt when he touched her, the way she had looked at him and for one dizzying, breathless second had actually wanted, yearned and ached for the feel of his mouth on hers, was not going to be conducive to such work.

  It took her over half an hour to successfully, if not exactly banish Richard from her thoughts, then at least manage to restrict him to a relatively distant part of her mind.

  She stopped once to make herself some coffee and to eat some of the crusty fresh bread she had bought, wondering as she did so where Richard had gone to.

  He must have left while she was upstairs getting changed and, contradictorily, instead of being pleased that she had the farmhouse to herself, she realised that she was actually missing his presence, wondering where he was…what he was doing…who he was with.

  No doubt when he did come back and found that she had taken possession of the kitchen table, and with it the kitchen itself, he probably wouldn’t be too pleased, she reflected as she looked a little guiltily at the mass of books and papers she had spread over the table.

  After all, where else could she work? The dim, dark sitting-room-cum-parlour had no table or desk in it, the other downstairs rooms w
ere virtually unfurnished, and besides, she felt more comfortable in the kitchen, with the comforting warmth and noise of the range and the cat, who had come inside with her, curled up asleep on the floor in front of it. For a farmyard creature, it was proving surprisingly adaptable to domesticity. Unlike a certain male. She nibbled the end of her pen thoughtfully. Why was he so antagonistic towards her sex?

  She suspected that the curt, ‘I was. I’m not now,’ response he had made to her involuntary shocked, ‘You’re married?’ probably held the answers, or some of them.

  What had his wife been like? she wondered. He must have loved her intensely for her to have hurt him so badly. How long had she…had they…?

  ‘Never get involved with a divorced man,’ Jenny had once told her with world-weary cynicism after the break-up of yet another romance. ‘They’re either so hung up on their ex-wives that they just can’t see anyone else, or they’re so bitter and resentful that they take it out on you. Either way, they’re trouble.’

  Livvy’s frown deepened. She had laughed then, thinking that her friend was guilty of exaggeration. But people were affected by what they experienced in life, scarred sometimes…

  She caught herself up quickly. How or why Richard Field had acquired his cynical and totally wrong-headed view of the female sex was nothing to do with her, and if she was wise she would make sure it stayed that way.

  It should be easy enough after all. There was certainly nothing he had said or done that could have caused this anxiety she was feeling, this uncertainty whether she was capable of maintaining a sensible emotional distance between them. Nothing whatsoever.

  Just because physically he had aroused her…just because this afternoon, when he had looked at her, touched her…

  She tensed as she heard the BMW drive into the yard, caution and common sense urging her to collect her things together and leave before he came in. What after all was the point in risking another confrontation, or in reminding him of that brief heartbeat of time earlier when she had looked at him, looked at his mouth, her body and her eyes telling him nakedly and wantonly that she wanted him to kiss her?

  Why should she go? She had nothing to be ashamed of. It had been a momentary lapse, that was all, but as she heard the door open she quickly bent her head over her work, raising it again only when she heard the noise he was making as he trundled the heavy replacement gas cylinder across the floor and towards the fridge.

  For some reason she herself could not entirely understand, Livvy told him haughtily, ‘There was no need for you to do that. Gale has an arrangement with Mr Dubois to have the gas replaced when necessary…’

  ‘Fine, only what it seems he neglected to tell you or her is that he makes a surcharge on the canisters, and a connection fee. It seems to be a subject of great amusement at the garage where I got this stuff that he manages to make so much extra income out of gullible visitors by charging them almost double what the gas costs him and then making a profit on top of that re-connecting the thing for them. Amusement and envy. The garage owner told me he’s tired of supplying him with rusty connections which, it seems, only Monsieur Dubois has a wrench suitable for unfastening.’

  ‘It’s only natural that he should want to make a profit on us,’ Livvy told him lamely.

  ‘A profit, yes—a laughing-stock is something else.’

  There was nothing Livvy could say.

  But it seemed that Richard Field had not finished.

  ‘Of course, for all I know, you might have come to some special arrangement with him… The payment of a small douceur in exchange for his prompt service, perhaps…’

  Livvy flushed as she read the real meaning behind his sneered words. She was almost shaking as she stood up and told him furiously, ‘You have no right to imply any such thing. I would never…’ She broke off, reminding herself that she had no need to defend herself to him, nor surely any reason to feel not just weak and shaky with the force of her anger, but frighteningly close to tears as well.

  ‘Besides,’ she challenged him, fighting to suppress her weakness, ‘according to you, Monsieur Dubois believes that I’m your mistress.’

  ‘All the more reason for him to take pleasure in having you,’ he told her brutally.

  It was more than Livvy could stand. Trembling from head to foot, her face white with anguish, she swept her hand outwards in a fierce movement of rejection, accidentally dislodging some of her papers from the table as she did so.

  ‘Having me?’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Is that how you think of a sexual relationship between a man and a woman? If so, I’m not surprised that—’

  Abruptly, she stopped herself, appalled by what she was doing, by what she had been about to say. Let him demean himself if he wished to do so; there was no need for her to stoop down to his level.

  ‘So how do you think of a sexual relationship between a man and a woman…?’

  The unexpected question caught her off guard. He was standing next to the fridge, his face half in shadow so that she couldn’t read his expression. His voice was deceptively soft.

  A tiny, fierce shiver ran over her skin. She couldn’t help herself. As she closed her eyes, she had a momentary mental image of the two of them together, his body lean, hard, male, arched protectively over hers, smaller, paler, softly feminine and vulnerable, but willingly, achingly open to him.

  She bit down hard on her bottom lip, appalled by the intensity and clarity of her vision.

  ‘Well?’

  His voice was still soft, but very, very determined. She gave another shiver, releasing her lip, feeling its swollen pressure where she had bitten it.

  ‘I think of it as an equal and mutual sharing of themselves with one another, a partnership in which the two people concerned complement one another and make one another whole; in which there is no taking, no selfish greed, no desire to hurt or dominate the other person. I think of it as a very special and privileged human experience which far too many people denigrate and destroy.’

  Her voice was shaking, Livvy recognised as she turned away from him. What had come over her? She had not meant to tell him any of that; even if it was the truth. She felt sick at the thought of how much of herself she had revealed to him. She tensed, waiting for his jeering laughter, his caustic mockery and contempt, but instead of the harshness she had expected his voice sounded faintly rough, almost as though his throat was slightly sore as he told her, ‘Only an idealistic fool thinks things like that.’

  Still shaking slightly, Livvy bent down to pick up her papers, not realising until she did so that he had moved and that he too was bending to retrieve them.

  She saw him frowning as he studied them. ‘You’re a teacher?’

  She could hear the disbelief in his voice and in other circumstances she might almost have been amused.

  Instead she responded quietly, ‘Yes. Why? Have you got a thing against them as well as women? Don’t tell me,’ she added bitterly. ‘Let me guess. Your first teacher was a woman and you felt rejected when she didn’t devote all her attention to you…’

  ‘Yes. My first teacher was a woman,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Isn’t every man’s? And, yes, I suppose she did reject me in a sense. She left my father when I was two years old to go and live with her lover. She didn’t want to leave me behind, or so she told me years later. She simply didn’t have any choice. Her lover didn’t like children and certainly didn’t want to be burdened with another man’s. She felt I’d be better off with my father…’

  If he had heard her shocked gasp of pity, he wasn’t making any response to it, Livvy realised thankfully, as she cursed her runaway tongue for its unwitting cruelty. She had never meant to hurt him nor to pry; she had simply lashed out in retaliation against the pain he had caused her.

  ‘My father did the best he could, but he had a business to run, a life to live, and at least at the boarding-school he sent me to I had the company of other children.’

  ‘Boarding-school?’

  He gave her a wry
look. ‘Why so shocked? It was a very good school. What do you teach?’ he asked her, changing the subject.

  ‘French,’ Livvy told him shakily.

  He had picked up one of the paperbacks she had bought and was studying it.

  ‘It’s for my French conversation classes. The girls, are at an age where it’s pointless trying to interest them in the classics. I’ve managed to persuade the head to allow me to show French videos. There’ll be a question and answer session afterwards, and a discussion group, so that they’ll have to concentrate on what they’re watching.’

  ‘Is it a single-sex school?’ he asked her, as he studied the paperback he was holding.

  ‘No,’ Livvy responded, adding wryly, ‘I know it isn’t going to be easy finding something equally appealing to the boys as well as the girls, but…’

  ‘Computer games…’ he told her.

  Livvy stared at him, watching as his frown disappeared and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m interfering, aren’t I? It’s just that both my stepbrothers who are in their teens are mad on computer games…’

  ‘Your father remarried, then?’ Suddenly, for no reason she could think of, Livvy found that her heart was lifting, her own mouth starting to curve into a responsive smile.

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘And you…you don’t mind…?’

  ‘No. My stepmother has made him very happy. She was his secretary for many years and knew him very well.’

  ‘And you get on well with her…?’

  Livvy wasn’t sure why it suddenly seemed important to ask that question, why it should matter to her that there might be one woman whom he could like and respect.

  When he hesitated, she found that she was holding her breath, willing him not to retreat from her, willing him to answer her. ‘I do now,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Now?’

  His smile had gone. ‘She didn’t want me to get married. She didn’t care for my wife. Perhaps if I’d listened to her…’ He stopped abruptly and Livvy flushed, realising how inquisitive she was being. Would he put it down to mere feminine nosiness and curiosity, or would he guess that her interest had a much more personal motivation? What personal motivation? she asked herself nervously. Hadn’t she already agreed with herself that she was not going to allow herself to develop any personal interest in him? That it was far too dangerous to do so?