by Anne Mather
‘Get out of here!’ he commanded violently.
Catherine began to tremble again, but she refused to let him see how he had hurt her. ‘What are you going to do with those sketches?’ she asked quietly, and he swung round to face her.
‘These?’ He picked up the sketches from the table nearby where he had tossed them minutes before. His expression was cold and sardonic. ‘What am I going to do with these? Why, what I always do with things that don't please me: I destroy them!’ And before she realised his intention, he had torn the charcoal drawings into shreds and thrown the pieces into the waste bin.
Catherine was appalled. They had been so brilliant, so alive, so much a part of her that his destruction of them seemed like a partial destruction of herself.
‘You—you swine!’ she choked, staring down into the bin, seeing the scattered scraps of paper like some fantastic jigsaw puzzle that could never be solved.
‘Now perhaps you'll keep away from me,’ he snarled. ‘You have to live in my house—but that's enough!'
Catherine stared at him blankly. ‘You don't honestly think it's as easy as that!'
‘Don't I?'
‘You drew those sketches.'
‘Yes, I did. And you know why.'
‘Pagan motherhood? Oh, yes, I remember. But I never posed for you. Does Laura know about this?'
‘Keep Laura's name out of it!'
‘Why should I? She's so proud of you.’ Catherine's voice broke on the words, but pride and something else, something she did not want to acknowledge, was driving her on. ‘I'd have thought she would be the first to compliment you on the vividness of your imagina—'
‘Shut up!'
With a tormented groan, he reached for her, and shuddered.
His hands slid over her shoulders and down her arms, finding her hands and gripping them tightly. ‘Oh, Catherine—Catherine!'
He spoke her name against her mouth, his breath filling her throat, parting her lips with his tongue and caressing them with his own. His eyes were open, looking into hers, but when she moved against him, she saw the darkening emotion narrowing their tawny penetration. His hands closed on the tops of her thighs and she felt the iron hardness of his body. She lifted her arms to his waist, hooking her thumbs into the low waistband of his jeans, pressing herself closer.
He seemed to have been holding himself in check, but the yielding softness of her body against his own released the need inside him. His mouth hardened into passion, possessing hers with a rousing urgency that left her weak and clinging to him.
‘This is madness!’ he protested against her hair, but she shivered convulsively beneath his questing hands. ‘Dear God—kiss me! Again! Catherine, you do know what I'm going to do to you, don't you? Oh, God, of course you do…'
‘Stop tormenting yourself, Jared,’ she breathed into his chest. ‘You don't understand.'
‘I don't want to—'
‘Jared! Jared, are you up there? Is Catherine with you?'
‘Laura!'
Jared's hoarse ejaculation was only audible to the girl in his arms. Laura's voice echoed clearly up the narrow stairway, and Catherine's legs refused to continue to support her. When Jared dragged himself away from her, she sank down weakily on to the floorboards, crosslegged, shoulders drooping, her head almost touching her knees.
Jared cast one desperate look in her direction and then raking his hands through his hair, he walked to the head of the staircase. If his voice was a little uneven as he answered his fiancée, only Catherine was sensitive enough to hear it. She heard Laura's footsteps as she mounted the stairs, and then determinedly lifted her head as the other girl entered the studio.
‘Oh, you are here, Catherine,’ she exclaimed lightly, and once more Catherine was astounded by her capacity to turn a blind eye to anything that didn't appeal to her. Didn't she really suspect what had been going on? Couldn't she tell from Catherine's bruised mouth what Jared had been doing to her? Hadn't she glimpsed the slightly glazed look in Jared's eyes?
Apparently not. Laura tucked her hand through her fiancé's arm, looking up at him adoringly. ‘I came over to see Catherine, actually. I was so excited about the news, and I had to share it with somebody. But when Lily told me that you were here…’ She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘Oh, darling, thank you!'
Jared looked as if he could use a drink, and disentangling himself from her clinging hands, he walked across the room to stare grimly out of the window.
‘Don't thank me, Laura,’ he told her bleakly. ‘It was Liz's idea. I'm not sure it was a good one.'
So they had discussed it!
Catherine scrambled to her feet. She had no part of this conversation, and again she was seeing Laura's air of confidence disintegrate.
‘I'll—go down—’ she began awkwardly, but Jared turned to stare at her, supporting himself with his hands against the sill.
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Don't you want to hear my reasons?'
‘Jared—’ She glanced helplessly at Laura.
‘What's wrong?’ He seemed bent on a course of self-destruction. ‘Laura knows what's been going on, don't you, Laura? She just doesn't want to acknowledge it.'
‘Jared!'
Catherine's cheeks flamed, but Laura had, if anything, lost colour. She stood there listening to what Jared was saying, and although her expression had hardly altered, she looked frozen.
Catherine shuddered. This was awful! What was Jared trying to do? How could he profess to love someone and then treat them so abominably? Didn't he care what Laura was feeling?
‘Isn't that right, Laura?'
Jared seemed determined that she should answer him, and she moved her shoulders in a helpless little gesture. ‘I shouldn't have come here,’ she said tremulously. ‘I realise that now. You're still upset because you haven't finished the commission—'
‘Damn the commission!’ he swore angrily. ‘Don't you listen to anything I say? I've been kissing Catherine, Laura, do you hear me? I've been holding her in my arms and caressing her, and if you hadn't interrupted us, I'd have made love to her—'
‘No!'
Now it was Catherine who interrupted him, and he turned to glare at her furiously. ‘What do you mean? No?'
‘I mean—no. I—I wouldn't have let you.'
‘You couldn't have stopped me!’ His lips twisted mockingly. ‘You forget—I know you, Catherine. I know all about you. And there's something about once having tasted the fruits—'
Catherine's fingers stung across his cheek, and her hand tingled long after the tell-tale marks had appeared on his dark skin. She slapped him for herself—and for Laura; and for all the agony he evoked inside her…
For a moment she thought he intended to return the slap. His hand moved—but went to his face, his fingers probing the marks hers had made. Laura uttered a sob of dismay, and then she interposed herself between them, pushing Jared's hand aside and examining his face with anxious eyes.
‘Oh, darling,’ she exclaimed, her voice breaking, ‘this is all my fault! Say you forgive me. I can't bear it when you're cruel to me!'
As Catherine turned unsteadily away, she encountered Jared's hard gaze above Laura's head. The contempt she read there filled her with despair, and she groped her way towards the door. She didn't understand this—she didn't understand them. What did it all mean? Would Laura really accept Jared on any terms?
On the first floor, she made her way almost automatically to her own room. She felt sick, physically nauseated by the scene she had just witnessed, torn to pieces by emotions she did not want to identify. Could Laura intend marrying Jared knowing that he was already unfaithful to her, in mind if not in body? Had she no pride? No self-respect? No pain at her own humiliation? So long as she wore his ring, was that all she cared about?
And why had Jared created that terrible scene anyway? Why couldn't he have allowed her to remain ignorant of what had occurred, even if it was only feigned? What had he hoped to gain by his revelations?
Catherine realised she was trembling, and sat down jerkily on the side of her bed. Oh, God, she thought shakily, why couldn't she hate him? Why couldn't she despise him? Was she no better than Laura? Would she be prepared to accept him on his terms?
She got up again and paced about her bedroom. No, she told herself fiercely, no! She pitied Laura, that was all. She pitied any woman who was so obsessed with a man that she would go to any lengths to keep him. And there was still Elizabeth…
Elizabeth—with whom he had discussed his wedding to Laura. But when? When he got back in the early hours that morning? Had he gone to her room? Had he confided what had happened to her? Had she soothed and comforted him?
Bile rose in the back of Catherine's throat, and she struggled to reach the bathroom, leaning over the basin until the violent spasm passed. But not everything passed so simply, she thought, grasping the door frame to support herself, as the room swam dizzily around her.
Her hands were hot and sticky with sweat, slippery against the smooth wood. She couldn't hold on. She could feel herself sliding down through waves of giddiness, but she could do nothing to save herself…
CHAPTER EIGHT
CATHERINE recovered consciousness as someone was lifting her on to the bed. She opened her eyes slowly, and blinked incredulously up into Jared's dark angry face.
‘Wh—what happened?'
‘You passed out,’ he replied grimly, lowering her on to the pillows, slipping off her sandals and dropping them on the floor at his feet. ‘How do you feel now?'
‘I'm’ —Catherine glimpsed Laura's anxious face hovering behind him, and it all came flooding back, ‘I'm all right.'
‘Are you?’ He seemed curiously unconvinced.
‘What are you doing here?’ she protested, trying to prop herself up on her elbows, but finding the effort too much for her.
Jared glanced over his shoulder at Laura, and a strange expression crossed his face. ‘I was—concerned about you,’ he muttered half angrily. He stared down at her. ‘Do you need a doctor?'
She realised what he meant, and the ridiculousness of it all brought tears of frustration to her eyes. She moved her head slowly from side to side, feeling the dampness on her cheeks.
‘Oh, God, Catherine!’ Jared cast another grim look in Laura's direction. ‘You know what I mean.'
‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ she mumbled, ‘but no! I don't need anything.'
Jared expelled his breath on an angry sigh. ‘All right, all right! We'll leave you.’ He indicated that Laura should precede him to the door. ‘I'll get Susie to fetch you some aspirin.'
‘It's probably the heat,’ remarked Laura complacently, and Catherine was amazed at her lack of perception. Or was it a lack? She could never be sure now.
‘The heat!’ Jared's harsh echo of her words was barely audible. ‘You're sure you'll be all right?'
‘I've said so!’ Catherine nodded jerkily, just wanting to be alone.
‘I think you should tell Elizabeth,’ he added, and they both knew to what he was referring.
‘There's nothing to tell!’ she retorted tearfully, and turned her face into the pillow. Let him make what he liked of that!
She must have slept because when she opened her eyes, Susie was sitting beside the bed, idly folding pleats into her starched apron. She smiled when she saw that Catherine was awake, and got up to lean over her.
‘You're feeling better?'
Catherine lifted her wrist and tried to concentrate on her watch. ‘What time is it?'
“Three-thirty.'
‘Three-thirty!’ Catherine was horrified. ‘Have I slept for more than three hours?'
‘Yes, miz,’ Susie nodded.
‘I—’ Catherine hesitated. ‘Where is—everyone?'
Susie frowned. ‘There's only you here right now, Miz Fulton. Miz Royal, she phoned to say she was having lunch at the Prentiss house, and Mr Royal, he left over an hour ago.'
‘And—and Miss Prentiss?'
‘She stay a few minutes after Mr Royal leave, and then she says she's going, too.'
Catherine absorbed this. ‘Where—where did—Mr Royal go?’ she asked, realising her weakness for doing so.
‘I think he went back to the beach house, Miz Fulton. I don't really know. He don't tell anybody. He just leave.'
Catherine struggled up on to her elbows. ‘Well, you can go now, Susie. I'll be fine.'
Susie looked doubtful. ‘Mr Royal, he say you shouldn't be left alone. Not today, leastways.'
Tears pricked at Catherine's eyes at this fleeting glimpse of Jared's sense of responsibility towards her. But she managed to blink them back, and swung her feet to the floor.
‘Honestly, Susie, it—it must just have been a touch of the sun. I—feel quite all right now.'
‘You sure?' Catherine nodded, and the girl moved reluctantly towards the door. But after she had gone, it was simpler to acknowledge weakness, and Catherine bent her head into her hands. Of course, it was too much sun which had upset her—that, and the violence of the emotions Jared had aroused inside her. But she doubted that Jared would ever believe it. And who could blame him? She wondered if he had asked Laura to stay until she woke. Was that why Laura had left after he did? Had the girl chosen this way to show a spark of independence?
With a sigh, Catherine tried to get up from the bed. But to her dismay, her legs buckled under her and she was obliged to crawl back on to the pillows, feeling more alone than she had ever done in her whole life.
In fact, she spent three days in bed.
When Elizabeth returned home and discovered what had happened, she was not to be deterred from calling a doctor. The dark-skinned physician gave Catherine a thorough examination and then pronounced the opinion that she had developed a mild attack of sunstroke. He insisted on at least forty-eight hours’ bed rest in a darkened room, and Catherine was certainly too weak to argue with him. But there was no pleasure lying alone with her thoughts, and as her strength gradually returned, she longed to escape from this house which had become a kind of prison to her.
Laura called to see her on her second day in bed. As expected, she made no reference to the events precipitating Catherine's illness, and instead talked incessantly about the plans for the wedding. Catherine wondered if Laura realised what she was doing, and decided that she probably did. She appeared to live life at a very shallow, level, and anything likely to disturb the surface calm was deliberately ignored. Listening to her describe her ideas for the bridesmaids’ dresses, Catherine was dismayed at the pain she was inflicting, and in her weakness it wasn't easy to hide her feelings. Perhaps Laura knew this, she thought bitterly. There was more than one way of seeking revenge.
Elizabeth was a little more subtle in her approach. Her concern, she said, was that Catherine should be well enough to attend the party the Prentisses were giving in a week's time. It would be a shame, she exclaimed, if Catherine couldn't be there to share in the fun.
Marion Prentiss sent her a bouquet of roses and her wishes for her speedy recovery. Everyone was being very kind, but Catherine doubted their sincerity. All of these women had their own reasons for wishing her well, but they were not the simple ones they alleged.
On the fourth day after her collapse, Catherine was well enough to get up and sit in an armchair on her balcony. The breeze blowing off the Atlantic brought the smell of salt strongly to her nostrils, and she could taste its sharpness against her skin. The morning sun gave the ocean a coral tinge, glinting off the breakers that thundered their way shoreward.
The sound of a car coming up the drive was an intrusion on the quiet air. Earlier only the sounds of the insects among the flowers and the occasional plop of a fly hitting the surface of the pool had disturbed the stillness, but the drone of the engine was increasing rapidly.
Then the engine was cut off and a car door slammed. Catherine's nerves tensed. Who could it be? Laura, most likely, she conceded with a sigh. She hadn't been over the day before, so she could
be expected to put in an appearance.
Then there was a tap at her bedroom door. She turned her head. ‘Come in!’ she called, her eyes widening when Susie came into the room instead of Jared's fiancée.
Susie looked flushed. ‘You've a visitor, Miz Fulton,’ she exclaimed hurriedly. ‘Mr Dexter. He's asked to see you.'
‘John Dexter?’ Catherine's relief was ludicrous. ‘Oh, yes, yes, I'd like to see him.’ She looked down doubtfully at her blue silk dressing robe. ‘But not like this. Will you ask him to give me five minutes, and I'll come down.'
‘Oh, but Miz Fulton, do you think you ought?’ Susie was concerned. ‘Miz Royal, she said you'd be staying in your room today.'
‘I'm all right, Susie,’ Catherine exclaimed impatiently, and then gave a sheepish smile, remembering the other occasion she had said the same. ‘All right, I know I said that before, but I mean it this time. Look!’ She rose to her feet and did a light pirouette. ‘There—does that reassure you?'
Susie still looked doubtful. ‘Well, would you like me to help you downstairs?'
‘I'm not an old lady, Susie! No. Go on, tell Mr Dexter, I won't be long.'
It didn't take long to rinse her face and hands and put on some panties and a soft jersey tunic. The cream silk skirt swung softly against her legs, and it was good to feel normal again. John was waiting in the parlour, and she was satisfied with her appearance when he showed his evident admiration.
‘What's this I hear about you having sunstroke?’ he demanded, by way of a greeting, and she relaxed completely.
‘Just a mild attack,’ she conceded smilingly. ‘But what are you doing here? And how did you find out?'
‘I had dinner with some friends of the Prentisses last evening. Your name was mentioned. I'd have come sooner if I'd known. You haven't returned any of my telephone calls,’ he added reproachfully.
Catherine sighed, sinking down on to a low couch. ‘I haven't really had much opportunity.'
‘Don't give me that!’ John pulled a face at her. ‘So—how are you?'
Catherine couldn't resist it. ‘How do I look?'
