'Come on, Alan, play something we can all sing to,' Dennis suggested at length, and Alan strummed boisterously as he led them into that old favourite, Mona Lisa.
It was with a measure of shock that Christie listened to the words of the song. Lyle had once confessed to her that her 'mystic smile' at their first meeting had made him dub her the Mona Lisa until, of course, they had been introduced. Did he remember? She risked a glance in his direction, but he was looking the other way, and he was obviously lost in thought to the extent that she was convinced he was unaware of the song being sung. Damn! she cursed silently. It was not fair that she remembered so much while he seemed oblivious of the little things which had once bound them together.
The singing was halting and hesitant as everyone stumbled over the unfamiliar lyrics of some of the songs, but Christie remained obliquely silent, not daring to participate. It was when Alan played a song which had been one of her favourites that she looked up to find Lyle's dark eyes observing her with a mocking query in their depths. For one terrible moment when the song had ended, she thought that he was going to reveal that she had been a stage and recording artist, but an odd look flashed across his face before he turned abruptly and disappeared into the shadows. Had he, perhaps, sensed her reluctance to have her past made known? Or had he correctly interpreted the silent plea in her eyes? Whatever the case, she could not suppress the sigh of relief that passed her lips when he had walked away from the happy group around the fire.
Christie did not stay up late. She said good night and left to seek out the privacy of her tent for a wash before she crawled wearily into her sleeping bag. The sound of singing voices, some toneless, did not disturb her, but she could not settle down and go to sleep. She was thinking about Lyle, about her feelings for him, and she wondered once again what had happened that could have filled him with such a terrible anger.
She repeatedly recounted in her mind those final weeks they had been together before he had left for Italy. They had argued about her commitments, which would force them to part for a time, and he had, in the end, insisted that she choose between him and her career. She had been forced to choose her career, and he had packed his bags and stormed out of their flat with the words, 'I'm not coming back, so I suggest you file for a divorce.'
Nothing else had happened; nothing, at least, that she could think of at that moment. She had waited for three months, hoping desperately that his actions had been prompted by disappointment, but her spirits had been at their lowest ebb during the fourth month after his departure. It was then that Sammy Peterson had convinced her it would be futile to go on hoping for something which would never happen. She had filed for a divorce, Lyle had not contested it, and after some weeks she had been free of a marriage which she had once believed would last forever. She had taken back her maiden name, Olson, and Sammy had been a tower of strength during those painful months while she tried to eradicate from her mind the knowledge that she had ever known a man like Lyle Venniker.
What reason could he have for the anger which seemed to simmer like a volcano inside him? He had wanted a divorce, and she had given it to him. Why, then, did he hate her so much? No, she corrected herself, he did not hate her. He had said that what he felt for her was total indifference. Why did her presence anger him if he was totally indifferent?
It was hopeless trying to understand his behaviour without knowing more. Her mind was simply spinning in endless, ever-increasing circles without finding the solution, and it left her exhausted.
The camp was silent an hour later, but sleep continued to evade her, and she spent almost the entire night tossing about restlessly in her sleeping bag.
She was up before dawn the following morning, and the sun had not yet risen when she walked down to the river along a natural path among the sometimes spiky grass. It was a warm morning, and she peeled off her clothes before plunging into the cool water of the clear pool. She swam for a brief while, enjoying the refreshing feeling of the river water against her naked flesh, and it cooled her heated body at long last after a fretful night. The sun was spreading its golden, streaky glow across the dew wet earth when she reached for the cake of soap she had left on a rock with her towel, and she quickly soaped her body and washed her hair. It felt good, and she felt alive again as she lowered her body into the water to rinse off the soap before she stepped out of the water to towel herself dry and put on her clothes.
Her slender, supple body was smooth and tanned except where her bikini had protected her. Her breasts were small and firm, her legs long and shapely, but her thoughts were not concerned with her physical appearance while she zipped herself into her beige shorts and reached for her green-striped blouse. She was thinking of Lyle. She had considered herself immune, but seeing him again had served to prove her wrong. Loving him had once been a joy, but it would now be an agony. He no longer cared for her. He had made that abundantly clear while she, like an idiot, had allowed that old love to come alive again. Fate had been cruel to throw them together again after all this time, and God only knew what heartache still lay ahead of her.
Christie turned while she slipped her arms into her sleeveless blouse. Some sixth sense must have warned her that she was no longer alone, and she froze the next instant. The object of her disturbing thoughts was standing a few paces away from her with his back resting against the stem of a weeping wattle, and his arms crossed over his wide chest. Khaki shorts hugged his lean hips, accentuating the length of muscular thighs and calves, and his dark gaze wandered over her with a deliberate insolence that made her breath catch in her throat when his probing glance settled on her naked, pointed breasts. Her cheeks flamed, and she hastily dragged the two sections of her blouse together to protect herself against this onslaught. His mouth curved sensually, sending the blood pounding through her veins, and she could almost hate him at that moment for invading her privacy and placing her at an immediate disadvantage.
CHAPTER THREE
'How long have you been standing there?' demanded Christie, her voice cold with anger as she turned her back on him and fumbled the buttons of her blouse into position with shaky fingers.
'Long enough,' came the mortifying reply, while she pushed her feet into her sandals and combed her fingers through her short, damp curls.
Christie waited a moment for her colour to subside before she turned to face Lyle. 'I was given to understand that this particular pool was out of bounds to the men.'
His mocking smile deepened and his dark eyes surveyed her from head to foot in a way that made her feel naked once again. 'Where you and I are concerned that rule doesn't apply, Christina.'
'That's where you're mistaken, Professor!' she retorted with an icy anger that lent sparks to her eyes. 'I'm entitled to my privacy just as much as any of the other girls.'
'I find your modesty difficult to accept, and also somewhat amusing.'
'I don't see why you should,' she replied with a calmness she was far from experiencing as she picked up her things and prepared to flee.
'Oh, come now, Christie,' he laughed shortly, but there was no humour in his laugh, only a biting sarcasm. 'Do you expect me to believe that I'm the only man who has ever seen you without your clothes on?'
Christie stared at him speechlessly. His remark was a blatant insult she could not ignore no matter how much she wanted to. She tried to speak; to say something in her defence, but it felt as if her tongue had become permanently locked in her throat.
'How many men, I wonder, have had the pleasure of taking your delightful body into their beds?' he persisted with a sneer, pushing himself away from the stem of the wattle to lessen the distance between them, and it felt to Christie as if his eyes were intent upon destroying her with the fire that burned in them. 'As I recall, Sammy Peterson never could keep his fat little paws off you, and it wouldn't surprise me if he was one of your lovers.'
The blood drained from Christie's face to leave her white as a sheet. She had, at times, looked upon Sammy Peterso
n as the father she had never had, and he had treated her with affection, nothing more, but Lyle's remark made a wave of nausea rise inside her which she could barely suppress. Her relationship with Sammy had always been based on friendship and business, but Lyle had suddenly tainted it to a degree where it appeared dirty and vulgar.
'You're disgusting!' The words finally exploded in a hiss of fury from her stiff, unwilling lips.
'Am I?' An ugly smile curved Lyle's mouth. 'Let me show you how disgusting I can be.'
Christie was crushed against his lean, hard length before she had time to anticipate his actions, and the shock of this unexpected contact with his body sent a weakness surging into her limbs. His strong fingers gripped a handful of damp hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her white face out into the open, and his mouth clamped down on hers with a bruising force that made her moan in protest and agony against his lips. Her towel and her soap slipped from her grasp as a heavy blanket of darkness threatened to engulf her mind, but she fought against it as she felt his hands roam her body. His touch insulted her, made her feel cheap, and she worked her hands in between them in a desperate attempt to push Lyle away from her.
He released her as abruptly as he had taken her, and she staggered away from him, dazed and white-faced. She raised the back of her hand to her bruised, swollen lips, her eyes wide and dark as they met his accusingly, but his derisive smile did not waver for a moment.
'I don't deserve your insults,' she croaked in her defence, and he laughed satanically.
That was the last straw. She snatched up her things and fled, but she could not recall afterwards how she had got to her tent without stumbling and falling along the uneven, twisting path up to the camp.
Christie put her soap away and hooked up her towel to dry, but she did so automatically. She felt numb and deeply hurt, and she would have given anything to erase the memory of Lyle's hands on her body. His touch had been degrading; it had made her feel like a piece of cheap merchandise which had been handled often, and that feeling of nausea returned to leave her ashen-faced and shaking.
'Is anything wrong?' Christie spun round to see Valerie standing at the entrance to her tent with the early morning sun igniting a flame in her auburn hair. 'You looked upset when you returned to the camp a few minutes ago, and you're extremely pale.'
'I have a headache.' That was not a lie. Christie's head was pounding with renewed anger at the insults she had been forced to bear. 'It's nothing serious,' Christie lied this time, attempting a smile and failing.
'Do you have anything to take for it?' Valerie questioned her with concern in her hazel eyes. 'I'm sure the professor has a supply of headache tablets in his first-aid kit.'
'Oh, God!' Christie groaned inwardly. All she needed now was for Lyle to discover that he had upset her to the point where she needed medication!
'I have some aspirin in my haversack,' Christie assured her hastily. 'Thanks all the same.'
'Are you sure you will be okay?' Valerie persisted, obviously not entirely convinced that it was merely a headache.
'I'll be fine,' Christie insisted.
The younger girl hesitated a moment, then she turned away, saying, 'Let me know if I can get you something.'
Christie did not leave her tent until the pounding in her head had subsided. She swallowed down a couple of aspirins as a precautionary measure, and brushed her swiftly drying hair into some order. The camp was coming alive, and she could smell the sausages and eggs being prepared for breakfast on the gas stove, but she continued to linger in her tent. She studied herself in the small hand-mirror while she applied a touch of make-up. Her colour had returned almost to normal, but there was a rawness inside her that made her feel as if she had taken a physical pounding. She could hear Lyle speaking to someone a little distance from her tent, and she cringed inwardly at the thought of having to face him again. He had insulted her unfairly, and she wished that she knew the reason for it. Lyle, more than anyone else, should have known that she was not guilty of the vile insinuations he had made, but for some obscure reason he had become a demon possessed with the desire to hurt her.
Why? she wondered not for the first time. Was this his idea of taking revenge because she had been forced to place the importance of her career above that of their marriage? But why did he have this desire for revenge if he felt nothing but indifference towards her? Or was he, perhaps, not as indifferent as he wished her to believe? This was a tantalising thought, but there was no time to dwell on it. The chef for that morning was banging a ladle against a pan to indicate that breakfast was ready to be served, and Christie steeled herself for her second meeting with Lyle that morning.
She need not have been concerned. Lyle barely looked her way and, during the course of the morning, he behaved in an abrupt and impersonal manner towards her. The students were digging, sifting, and examining every particle they removed from the earth, but storm clouds had risen to obliterate the sun, and they were forced to return to the camp long before lunch that day.
The sky darkened ominously while they sat down to an early lunch, and the menacing roll of thunder drew nearer with every second. The cooking utensils had barely been packed away when the first heavy drops of rain fell. Lightning snaked unexpectedly across the darkened sky, making the air crackle with electricity, and it was followed by a clap of thunder which seemed to tear the heavens apart. The rain came down with a battering force that sent everyone dashing into their respective tents, and for the next hour Christie lay curled up on her stretcher with her pillow over her head to obliterate the frightening sound of the thunder.
The storm passed at last and, miraculously, the sun emerged to bathe the bushveld in a bright golden glow. The wet earth smelled clean and fresh when Christie walked the short distance from her tent to Lyle's, and she breathed the air deeply into her lungs. She wished that she did not have to spend the rest of the day in front of a typewriter, but, as Lyle had so brutally pointed out, she was not on a paid holiday.
Lyle was lounging in a chair with a large book on his lap when she entered his tent. He looked up, his dark glance impersonal and cold, then he waved her away. Christie stared at him stupidly. Was he actually granting her silent wish and giving her the afternoon off? Impossible!
He looked up again to find her hovering with uncertainty. 'If you're not out of here in two seconds flat I'll change my mind about giving you the afternoon off, and I'll soon find something for you to do.'
'Thanks, I'm going,' she assured him hastily, turning and walking away in a blind haste that sent her cannoning seconds later into Dennis.
'What are you running away from?' he teased, his hands on her shoulders steadying her.
'I'm running away from work,' she confessed. 'I've got the afternoon off.'
'That's great!' he smiled broadly. 'I was thinking of going for a walk to explore the area on my own, but I wouldn't object to your company.'
'If that's an invitation, then I accept,' she answered him with a burst of light-heartedness she had not felt in ages and, linking her arm through his, they strolled out of the camp towards the area below the site which they had marked off for their excavations.
Christie's quizzical glance darted at Dennis several times. He was walking with his head lowered while she was walking with her face raised towards the sky, and a humorous smile lifted the corners of her mouth. 'Are you looking for something in particular, or do you simply want to acquaint yourself with the countryside?'
'I've always been an inquisitive sort of chap,' he explained with a hint of embarrassment in his smile, 'and I prefer to explore things quietly on my own rather than in the company of a dozen or more students.'
'You're hoping to find something, then?' she questioned, and his smile deepened as he looked down into her amused face.
'A storm as violent as the one we have just had nearly always washes away the surface soil, and who knows what I might find.'
'The owner of the farm thinks you're wasting your time,' Sh
e proffered the information Lyle had given her.
'Perhaps we are,' Dennis agreed thoughtfully, 'but there's always the chance that the farmer might be wrong.'
'Are you always this optimistic?' she teased lightly, and his smile appeared again as he shook his dark head.
'I wouldn't say I'm optimistic,' he said, contradicting her description of him.
'Enthusiastic, then?' she corrected herself.
'That's nearer the mark,' he laughed, but his expression sobered when he paused in his stride and turned to face her. 'The professor's a great archaeologist, and a wonderful lecturer. If I could be just a fraction as good as he is, I know I'll be satisfied.'
Christie hastily concealed the look of surprise that flashed across her face when she raised her glance to study Dennis thoughtfully. 'You admire him very much, don't you?'
'We all do,' came the quiet, sincere reply. 'He has a first-class knowledge of archaeology which leaves many of his colleagues lagging way behind, and yet we have never heard him crowing about his achievements. What we know about him is what we have read about him in the archaeological annals of recent years, and he has written some fabulous articles on the subject which we have found extremely helpful with our studies.'
Christie felt curiously shattered to discover how little she actually knew about the man she had once been married to. She had been too preoccupied with her own career and the sometimes unfair demands it made on her time to question Lyle about himself. She had known that he was an archaeologist of some repute, but he had never discussed his work with her, and there had never been time to enquire as to what it entailed, or what he had hoped to achieve.
A terrible sadness swamped Christie at the thought of what might have been, but this was not the time to dwell on past mistakes. Dennis was inspecting a deep donga caused by soil erosion over the years, and Christie stood about aimlessly while he leapt into the donga for a closer examination of something which had caught his eye.
A Moment in Time Page 4
