Forsaking All Reason

by Jenny Cartwright

  Suddenly there didn’t seem to be a choice any more. And indeed it wasn’t difficult to get hold of the phone number of Rexford Holdings’ head office in London. Nor to leave an urgent message for him to contact her at six p.m. At six o’clock and thirty seconds the phone in her room rang.

  ‘Hello? Guy?’

  There was a brief pause. Then his voice came crackling drily down the line. ‘You’re going to agree. Tremendous! I can tell by your voice. You sound frightened to death. It can only mean one thing.’

  Jane gave a shaky sigh and rubbed anxiously at one eye. ‘Is that how you want your fiancee to sound when she agrees to marry you? Frightened to death?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s only temporary. You’ll soon get used to the idea. You’ll sound pleased with yourself then.’

  ‘Er…what happens next? Are you coming over to take me out to celebrate, or what?’

  ‘I’m in London on business,’ he said briskly. ‘I could be with you in a couple of hours, though I’d have to get back…Look, tomorrow’s Saturday and—’

  Her heart jumped painfully. ‘That’s OK,’ she said with a forced brightness, pressing the receiver hard against one ear, and twisting her gold earring in the other. ‘Tomorrow will do fine. But the only thing is, Guy, could we please not say anything to my parents for a week or so? I want them to think you’ve been wining and dining me as per normal and that you proposed to me by moonlight beside a lake…’

  ‘A couple of weeks? I was hoping we’d be married by then!’

  ‘No…quite soon. But…but not with indecent haste, please. I just want it all to seem very normal to Mum and Dad.’

  There was a little silence and then he said, ‘OK. Whatever you say. I’ll be with you around ten. Dress casually—I’ll take you for a picnic if the weather holds up.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE wedding took place six weeks later. It was a June wedding, with six bridesmaids and three hundred guests. Very conventional.

  Guy had played his part well from the moment the decision was made. He was faultlessly charming, and took her on a two-week round of dinners and parties and nightclubs. Each evening ended chastely, without so much as a brisk peck on the cheek, so that in the end Jane found herself suggesting clubs where they could dance. She adored the sensation of moving with him, his big hands on her back, hers slipped around his waist, beneath his jacket, fingering the silky back of his waistcoat covertly as they swayed to the music, and allowing herself to indulge the heady glow of being close to the man she loved.

  But once the engagement had been announced Jane hardly saw Guy. His work took him to Malaysia and India, and seemed to require his presence in London an awful lot of the time. Jane made the effort to understand his need to distance himself.

  Jane’s mother cried at the wedding. Big salty tears rearranged her make-up. Jane’s father did, too. Tears of joy stood sentinel in his gentle grey eyes, but manfully declined to course down his cheeks. Jane didn’t cry. She stood proudly at the altar, her chin high, looking more beautiful than any bride had a right to look. This too, she told herself as the wide gold band was slipped on to her finger, is meant to be. And when she looked up at her groom as he lifted her veil, and lowered his mouth very slowly to kiss her, her heart filled to bursting with love and she sent up an earnest prayer. Please, God. Oh, please let it all work out.

  After the reception a chauffeur-driven Rolls took them to London and deposited them at an exclusive hotel.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ he said as she perched nervously on the edge of the sofa in their suite. It wasn’t, she noticed, the honeymoon suite. It wasn’t even decked with flowers. A small bowl of freesias sat on the coffeetable in front of her, filling the room with their fragrance. It was very nice, but not the least bit bridal. It was exactly what she ought to have expected, if only she’d stopped to think. She’d been too carried away with the wedding preparations, that was the trouble.

  ‘I am tired,’ she admitted, taking off the small, turquoise velvet hat which matched the silk suit she had worn to come away. ‘It’s been a long day. A long six weeks, come to that…’

  ‘You don’t regret it?’ he asked directly, fixing her with his eyes.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you discovered that love doesn’t matter that much, after all?’

  Jane looked away, fixing her eyes very hard on a patch of wallpaper on the other side of the room. ‘No, Guy. I didn’t discover quite that. It was the love of my parents which made up my mind for me in the end.’

  ‘You mean you married me solely for their sake? For the shares?’

  ‘No.’ Jane shook her head vehemently. She couldn’t bear him to think she’d married him for money. ‘Not that. More for the fact that they want so much for me…they love me so dearly…they want me to have…’ She was about to say happiness, but caught herself back. She didn’t want to give away the fact that she was in love with him yet. Not until he was ready to love her too…‘Everything,’ she substituted lamely. Then added more emphatically, ‘Everything in abundance.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, and he slowly began to loosen his tie. ‘Let’s hope that they get their hearts’ desire then,’ he added laconically.

  Jane felt embarrassed. This wasn’t a very appropriate conversation to be having on their wedding night. She flashed him a weak, eager little smile. ‘What shall we do this evening?’ she asked, and then flinched, realising that that hadn’t exactly been the right thing to say, either.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked wearily. ‘More wining and dining and dancing?’

  ‘No,’ she muttered morosely. Oh, wasn’t it obvious what she wanted him to do? ‘Not that. Not tonight.’

  ‘It’s nine o’clock,’ he said glancing at his watch, and stretching out in the chair opposite her. ‘Perhaps if we have a meal sent up shortly we can manage an early night. We’ll have to get going first thing in the morning.’ He picked up the remote control for the TV set and switched it on.

  Jane’s eyes widened with dismay. ‘Uh…yes.’ So was this to be her wedding night, then? Eating off a tray while they watched TV?

  She looked away from Guy. For six weeks the idea of this night had curled inside her mind, like a contented cat licking cream from its whiskers. She had tried to push the thought away, because that wasn’t why she was marrying him. Yet still the image had come, unbidden, of them together on their wedding night, bedded in white linen, arms entwined…

  She swallowed hard. ‘Where are we going for our honeymoon? Can I know now?’

  ‘Tuscany. I have a home there. It’s nice. You’ll like it. I thought we could live there for a while. I can commute quite easily.’

  ‘Oh…’ So there wasn’t even to be a proper honeymoon? And then sharp tears brightened her big, dark eyes and she blinked and blinked but they wouldn’t go away, and in the end she had to get hastily to her feet and find the bathroom and blow her nose.

  When she came back into the room he said, ‘You’re disappointed, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why should I be? Tuscany’s lovely.’ She scoured her mind for something bright and positive to say. The paintings, of course…every church for miles around had the’most splendid paintings…and the Uffizi gallery…‘We’ll be within striking distance of Florence. It’s one of my favourite cities,’ she added with a firm smile. ‘It’s a wonderful place.’

  He was in the middle of shrugging off his jacket. ‘It’s certainly very smart. Lots of boutiques and good restaurants.’

  Although his face betrayed nothing, that edge was back in his voice, and she felt abraded by it. She let her eyes settle on the television screen. Anything rather than look at his waistcoat, superbly fitted over his broad chest…And his long legs stretched out in front of him… And his head tilted at an angle so that his jaw stuck out in bold relief over his loosened shirt-collar.

  Oh, lord…only a couple of hours and she would see him undressed for the first time and he would take her in his arms, and it wouldn’t matte
r that he hadn’t bothered with any of the romantic trappings because…because she did love him very, very much and even thinking about it was making her burn with desire. She wriggled in her seat.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

  His eyes met hers. Inky. She looked deeply into them. ‘Yes…’ she said.

  ‘I’ll call room service.’

  She smiled her agreement. They would eat together alone for the first time, and then relax together alone for the first time. And then they would make love. Together. For the first time.

  But he didn’t make love with her that night. She bathed luxuriously in scented water and put on her flimsy white silk nightgown, and she let down her swathe of black, shiny hair and walked nervously into their bedroom. He was standing next to the bed, wearing just a pair of navy briefs. She almost cried aloud at this first sight of him without his business suit or the crisp, designer casuals he wore for informal occasions. He was so unutterably beautiful. His skin was taut and brown, stretched over packed muscle and bone. Dark hairs curled crisply against the skin of his chest, and tapered beckoningly beneath his navel. He was hard and powerful and muscular and very, very male. The muscles of his thighs tightened and then relaxed as she came into the room. And then he looked at her very seriously, and he took her arm and led her to the bed and she thought… oh…good grief…it was happening and she could hardly think at all.

  His hand began by fondling the back of her neck.

  ‘You’re worn out.’

  ‘Oh, not really…’ she denied earnestly, praying that the question of an early night had been buried for good. ‘It’s been a lovely day…really wonderful. It was a super wedding wasn’t it? It’s left me feeling very…wide awake. Very…ready for anything.’

  His hands shooed her hair over her shoulders and plied the muscles of her neck.

  ‘Lie on your stomach…’ he said.

  When she complied he began to massage her back. It was glorious…Any minute now he would turn her over and his mouth would cover hers and they would kiss. But it didn’t happen. Her desire mounted until she was gasping and moaning, her fingers digging into the yielding banks of pillows. And, although her face was pressed against the starched pillow-slip and she could see nothing, she could feel the hard strength of his arousal matching her own, and could hear his breathing falter and the sounds of his mouth swallowing convulsively against the force of carnal need. Soon. It must be soon, surely? But just as she felt that neither of them could bear this restraint any longer he let his hands drift away from her skin.

  ‘Sleep now,’ he said thickly, and he rolled away from her and lay on his side with his back to her.

  ‘Aren’t you going to make love with me?’ she asked, muffled, her teeth against the pillow.

  ‘Not now. It’ll be better if we wait…’ he said, and she bit very, very hard on her lower lip and waited for the pangs to subside. They were tired. Both of them. And there was no reason why, in their case, they should follow tradition to the letter. He was very experienced, after all, while she was very much a virgin. Wasn’t he always right? But when at last she heard his breathing fall into the steady rhythm of sleep she wept.

  He was already dressed in a pair of smoky blue chinos and a grey chambray shirt when she woke up. His chin shone from the assault of the razor and his hair was damp from the shower. Even such soft, casual clothes looked fresh and new-made on his big, square frame. Jane dressed in the bathroom. Taking her lead from him, she put on an undemanding madras sundress in russet and blue checks, with a baggy matching jacket and flat sandals. She left her hair loose.

  ‘I’ll get them to take our bags down before we have breakfast,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you want from the suitcase?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what we’ll be doing today…’ she returned vaguely.

  ‘Helicopter and then private jet to Pisa,’ he returned crisply. ‘I’ll drive us the rest of the way. We should be there for lunch.’

  The narrow roadway to the house was composed of pale stones and faded dust. It wound, dry, yellow, mysterious, between an avenue of cypress trees. Beyond the trees were well tended vineyards. At the road’s vanishing point shimmered an ethereal blue vision of misty mountains. The house was set off to one side, hidden by the dark plumes of the trees until they were almost upon it. It was white. Its windows, viewed across the sun-washed garden, seemed too small for its wide expanse. The orange pantiles of the roof looked bleached and dry under the brash midday sun.

  ‘What a pretty road. It’s like something in a dream,’ said Jane, looking straight ahead at the mountains. She was afraid to comment on the house—or to look at it more than was necessary. She no longer felt certain that all this was meant to be. She was frightened.

  ‘It’s hell in winter. It just turns to mud,’ said Guy, swinging the well-sprung cabriolet on to the tarmacked driveway. ‘We’ll live in a city in winter, of course. London. Paris. New York. You can choose.’ He brought the car round in front of the house. ‘What do you think?’

  She forced herself to look again at the house. It had two turrets with conical tiled roofs. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said truthfully, unable to fault the confection in front of her. Now that they were nearer, the windows looked larger. She could see a mosaic-floored porch, blue and white and yellow, framing an arched doorway.

  ‘There are a couple of pools at the back,’ elaborated Guy, silencing the car and getting out. He stretched and yawned before coming around to her side and opening the door. ‘I’ve got two local women coming in most mornings to do the work, but otherwise we’ll have the place to ourselves.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jane felt less fearful all of a sudden. There was something magical about this house. She was sure that being alone with him here would be better than any honeymoon she could have dreamt up.

  Inside was all cool white marble and more mosaic tiles. The hallway was bare of furniture, but there was a small painting on the wall of a peasant-woman with a basket on her hip. -

  She reached down and unhooked the backs of her sandals from her heels and stood barefoot on the cold floor, her shoes dangling from one hand, her eyes transfixed by the picture. ‘It’s a Pissarro, isn’t it?’ she said wonderingly. It was so good…so wholesome and animated and nourishing. She wriggled her toes excitedly.

  Guy came up behind her. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I did an art appreciation class,’ she said drily. ‘And I got the bug then. Especially for the Impressionists.’ The lessons had bred in her a genuine love of painting. ‘It is a Pissarro, isn’t it?’

  He laid his hands on her bare shoulders and looked at the painting with her. ‘Yes,’ was all he said, but she felt his approval sweep over her. Without being conscious of what she was doing, she leant back against him. His fingers began to move gently against her skin. She closed her eyes briefly. Now, she willed. Take me upstairs and make love with me now. They stood there like that for some minutes. She could feel his heart pounding and his breath warm in her hair. And she could sense a tightening of his muscles, a hardening of flesh as her weight tended against his and her breasts began to firm themselves into demanding points.

  And then he took a step backwards. ‘It’s a nice picture, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  She quelled the pangs of disappointment. ‘Mmmm,’ she managed. Then she ran a finger along the edge of her sundress. ‘I’m awfully hot,’ she said as steadily as she could.

  ‘Go upstairs and explore,’ he said. ‘You can take a shower. I’ll bring the cases up. You can slip into a swimsuit then and we’ll have lunch by the pool.’

  And that was exactly what did happen, though while she was in the shower she heard him moving about the adjoining bedroom and was certain that he must come in and find her drenching herself in the lukewarm spray, her senses expectant, her eyes shining, and then he would begin to kiss her. But the sounds died, and when she walked naked into the bedroom it was to find his clothes folded carefully over the back of a simple wooden chair, but
the man himself quite absent.

  She picked out a bikini without thinking. She didn’t know quite what made her fingers travel to that particular swimsuit because she had several. But once she had secured its fastenings she knew exactly why she had chosen it. It was a luscious, deep raspberry pink, and the top scarcely covered the full, round orbs of her golden breasts. She had to be careful as she tied the skinny neckstraps not to touch her breasts, because by now her flesh was practically crying out with desire. She looked over her shoulder in the mirror as she tied up her hair and saw the curves of her her hips laid bare by the enticingly skimpy briefs. It was a very provocative bikini indeed.

  Guy was already in the pool, which was screened from the house by more cypress trees. She walked nervously to the edge of the sparkling blue water, raised her arms, paused for a moment to make sure his eyes were following her and executed a competent dive. She surfaced close to him. He was standing chest deep in the water, his pupils made small by the sunlight, his skin wet and gleaming. His eyes narrowed as they watched her. His black, dense eyelashes were full of water.

  ‘You dive well,’ he said.

  ‘Not really. I can only do a swallow-dive from the edge. I can’t dive off boards or anything.’

  He nodded into the distance. ‘There’s a diving pool at the end of that path. You can practise—’

  ‘Guy!’ The noise was somewhere between a plea and a wail.

  He gave a small, dry smile, his eyes starting to rake over her wet shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about diving,’ she said shakily.

  ‘Oh…?’

  ‘No,’ she continued despairingly. ‘I want to know why you didn’t…um…The thing is, Guy, you said we’d be good in bed together, so although we haven’t married for all the usual reasons I didn’t suppose it would be a…you know, a celibate sort of a marriage…’ She tailed off weakly.

  ‘Last night, when I massaged your back—did that feel celibate?’