Melting Fire

by Anne Mather

  Eventually she chose the brown chiffon, deciding the colour she had acquired in the heat of the day would be suitably subdued by a muted shade. Swathes of almost transparent gauze rising from a tight band beneath her breasts exposed most of her shoulders, but a shawl of the same material served as both an accessory and a protection. With her hair brushed into some semblance of order, and curling softly about her nape, and an eye-shadow to match her dress, she was ready, her only jewellery the slender gold chain Richard had bought her for her eighteenth birthday. The signet ring she constantly wore, and which she never considered as jewellery, he had bought her also, the Christmas before last. Viewing her reflection in the long mirrors before she went downstairs, she felt satisfied that he would not be disappointed with her appearance, and adopting a rather determined air of inconsequence, she left the bedroom.

  Only Alex Bishop was waiting in the sitting room downstairs. He was perched on the edge of an armchair, flicking through a pile of papers, but he got hastily to his feet when she came in, casting a rather embarrassed look in her direction.

  Deciding that attack was her best means of defence, Olivia smiled at him and said lightly: ‘How do I look?’

  Alex’s nervous fingers fidgeted with the file. ‘You look very attractive, Olivia,’ he assured her stiffly. ‘But I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Olivia glanced about her half impatiently. ‘All women like to feel—attractive.’ She paused. ‘Where’s Richard?’

  ‘He went to change over an hour ago,’ Alex replied, shifting the file from hand to hand. ‘Can I—that is—would you like a drink while you wait?’

  Olivia regarded him thoughtfully. ‘While I wait?’ she parried, deliberately teasing him. ‘While I wait for what?’

  Alex moved his shoulders in an awkward gesture. ‘You—er—you’re obviously going out for dinner …’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’ Alex looked at her directly. ‘With Richard?’

  Olivia felt a tingling at the base of her spine. ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Of course.’ Alex was honest. ‘I made the reservations myself.’

  ‘When?’ Olivia could feel the tension rising inside her.

  ‘Why—twenty minutes ago,’ answered Alex swiftly, but the colour that deepened between the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt and ran like wildfire up his cheeks belied this admission.

  ‘You made the reservations this afternoon, didn’t you, Alex?’ she demanded, the heat of her own body competing with his, but before he could reply, another more disturbing voice broke in on their conversation.

  ‘He made the reservations yesterday, if you must know,’ Richard declared, strolling lazily into the room, dark and disruptively masculine, in a wine-coloured velvet dinner suit that on anyone else might have looked theatrical. ‘Why are you catechising poor Alex, Olivia? He’s not to blame for my shortcomings.’ His eyes appraised her intently. ‘You should wear brown more often. It suits you.’

  Olivia’s tongue moistened her lips. ‘You have an answer for everything, haven’t you, Richard?’ she retorted tautly. Then: ‘Are you ready? I’m getting a headache, and I’d hate to disappoint you.’

  ‘You’d never do that,’ he assured her, and she preceded him from the room with a distinct feeling of disadvantage.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN the morning, Olivia could dismiss her fears of the night before with a rueful smile. Despite all her apprehensions she had had a marvellous evening, and Richard had been as considerate and charming as only Richard could be.

  He had taken her to the Yacht Club. On the marina at Chelmsbury, it combined the dual purposes of creating a meeting point for the sailing enthusiasts of the district with the provision of one of the most exclusive eating places west of London. Its restaurant was famous, not only for its seafood which was excellent, but also for the entertainment provided by some of the well-known names in show business. One could eat and be entertained, or dance in the adjoining bar, with its modern decor and equally modern music.

  Naturally, Richard was a regular visitor to the club. He often entertained his business associates there, and was treated with the deference due to an influential member. Olivia had only been there twice before—once during a regatta, and once on her eighteenth birthday—and her initial reaction was one of cynical admiration. She was sure Richard had chosen the place deliberately, knowing how much she liked it, assuming, she thought wryly, that where he could not succeed, the Yacht Club might.

  But her wary antagonism could not last. Within minutes of arriving at the Club they were surrounded by friends and acquaintances she had known for years, and their laughing chatter and undisguised admiration disarmed her as Richard must have known they would. She was treated as an attractive woman, not a child, and an adult did not indulge in childish tantrums. Several tables were pushed together for the dinner that followed, and Olivia found herself separated from her stepbrother and seated between two young men she had known since her schooldays. One was already married, but the other was not, and the meal flew over in a whirl of teasing banter.

  Afterwards, Olivia was among a group of young people who gravitated to the disco bar, and although she looked round for Richard, he seemed quite content to talk stocks and shares with Malcolm Gerrard. The Gerrards were in banking, and Malcolm and his wife lived only a couple of miles from West Cross.

  The evening passed swiftly, and it seemed no time at all before Richard was standing in the arched entry to the bar, chatting casually to Janice Gerrard, who was only a year younger than Olivia herself. Glancing at her watch, Olivia was amazed to discover it was already after twelve, and she guessed ruefully that Richard was not there to join in the dancing.

  However, in that she was mistaken. A few moments later David Foster, the boy she was partnering, gestured across the room, and she saw Richard joining Janice on the floor, making a surprisingly successful effort at copying her style.

  ‘What do you know?’ exclaimed David, grinning knowingly. ‘Janice must have what it takes to get your brother going. I’ve never seen him in here before.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’ Olivia made an offhand movement of her shoulders, not quite understanding her own reactions. She was glad when Richard came to claim her after the dance, and during the drive home in the Lamborghini she forgot her earlier uncertainty.

  Sundays at Copley were usually quiet days, and Olivia hoped that today would be no exception. Perhaps if she and Richard had a whole day in one another’s company, she would find an opportunity to discuss her plans with him, and maybe even broach again the subject which had caused such unnecessary unpleasantness the day before.

  Eliza brought her breakfast in bed, and after a lazy soak in the bath, Olivia dressed and went downstairs in search of Bella. She wanted to make her peace with the old nursemaid, too, and restore that sense of order she had always cherished.

  It was a cooler day than of late, with low-hanging clouds threatening rain, and after ascertaining that Bella was not in the kitchen, Olivia went out into the kitchen gardens to see if she was gathering vegetables for lunch. Only Thomas was seated on the circular seat beneath the old elm tree, sucking at the stem of his pipe and contemplating the weeds which would need his attention the next day.

  ‘Gone to church, she has,’ he declared in answer to the girl’s query as to Bella’s whereabouts, and belatedly Olivia guessed that this would be another black mark against her. Bella would have expected her to join her, it being her first Sunday home, and no doubt that was why Eliza had brought her breakfast before nine o’clock. Soaking in the bath, Olivia had not given a thought to morning service, and now she thanked Thomas ruefully before turning back towards the house.

  The sound of horse’s hooves was a distraction, however, and even as she turned to see who was trotting round the side of the building, a girl’s voice called: ‘Livvy! Livvy, cooee!’

  The girl who swung down from her horse in the ya
rd behind the house and embraced Olivia enthusiastically was a few years older than she was. As tall as her friend, but voluptuously plump, Shelley Foster was one of the most attractive girls in the neighbourhood, and she and Olivia had been friends for five years. They had first met at a gymkhana when Olivia was only thirteen, and Shelley, three years her senior, took all the major prizes. She was an expert horsewoman, a member of the local hunt, and one of the contenders for the role of Mrs Richard Jenner.

  ‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, when Olivia could get a breath. ‘David told me you were back. Why didn’t you ring?’

  Olivia’s smile was a trifle forced, but it wasn’t Shelley’s fault that she had started the day on the wrong foot, she thought, impatient with herself for her lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘I—I haven’t had the time,’ she said now, leading the way into the house. ‘I was going to ring you later today. How are you? How are things? It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, darling,’ returned Shelley warmly, tucking her arm through Olivia’s and hugging it close. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  Eliza was in the kitchen, and after asking her to bring them some coffee, Olivia led the way into the sitting room. It was too cold today to sit out on the patio, and she thought with regret of the previous day’s wasted hours. But there would be other days, she told herself determinedly, refusing to allow the demons of depression to threaten the tenuous thread of well-being she was striving hard to sustain.

  Shelley flung herself familiarly into a tapestry-covered armchair, stretching her booted legs out in front of her. With her mane of chestnut hair confined by a scarlet bandana, and a scarlet sweater outlining the generous curves of her breasts, she looked very much at home, and Olivia wondered rather unwillingly how often she had visited Copley while she was away.

  ‘So?’ Shelley looked up at her enquiringly. ‘How was Paris? Did you have a super time? Did you meet lots of handsome Frenchmen?

  ‘Some.’

  Olivia was non-committal, but Shelley was persistent.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she probed. ‘You can trust me. Your letters were less than graphic, and I was half convinced you’d come home engaged to some rich French aristocrat.’

  ‘Oh, honestly, Shelley …’ Olivia shook her head, moving restlessly about the room. ‘We were quite strictly chaperoned at St Helena’s. And French aristocrats are usually neither rich nor handsome.’

  Shelley wrinkled her nose. ‘I thought you spent Easter with a French family. Didn’t you write that there were two boys——’

  ‘Michelle’s brothers, yes,’ retorted Olivia, half impatiently. ‘But they were younger than me.’ She turned from rearranging a crystal bowl to her liking, and added: ‘What about you? Aren’t you engaged yet?’

  Now it was Shelley’s turn to be chary. ‘No,’ she denied, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and offering them to Olivia. When the girl refused, she put one between her lips and continued: ‘There’s only one man I want, and you know who he is. Unfortunately, he remains annoyingly elusive.’

  Olivia subsided rather suddenly into an armchair. ‘Richard,’ she said, almost inaudibly, and Shelley nodded.

  ‘Richard,’ she agreed, lighting her cigarette.

  Olivia sighed. ‘But Shelley, you know what Rich is like. Why, only this last week——’

  ‘—he was on the Kuriakis yacht. Yes, I know.’ Shelley nodded. ‘I know Stella Kuriakis is crazy about him. She makes that pretty obvious when she’s here. But she’s married already, and somehow I don’t think Rich would want her even if she wasn’t.’

  Olivia looked down at her hands, curled together in her lap. ‘Well, I think you’re wasting your time,’ she murmured, and Shelley shrugged.

  ‘You don’t think I’m sophisticated enough, do you?’ She inhaled deeply, surrounding herself with a cloud of blue smoke. ‘Well, we’ll see. He’s not indifferent to me, I can tell you that.’

  Olivia’s eyes darted towards her uncertainly, and then Eliza came into the room carrying the tray, and there was no further opportunity to reopen the discussion, for Richard followed the maid into the room, lean and attractive in the black shirt and denims he had worn the day before.

  ‘Fetch another cup, Eliza, there’s a good girl,’ he requested, grinning at Olivia before greeting their guest. ‘Hello, Shelley. I thought I heard voices. How are you?’

  Shelley assured him that she and her family were well, while Olivia shifted rather uncomfortably in her armchair. She had not expected Richard to join them. He had never done so before, and when he came to sit on the arm of her chair, she was intensely conscious of his thigh brushing her shoulder.

  ‘Did you sleep well, kitten?’

  He had transferred his attention to her now, and she had to suffer his arm along the back of her chair, her hair touching his skin every time she moved her head.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ she managed to say rather jerkily, before Eliza returned with the extra cup and gave her something to do with her hands. The tray had been placed on the low table beside her chair, and she shifted forward eagerly, glad to escape his nearness.

  Shelley stated her preference, and Olivia poured her coffee before attending to her stepbrother’s needs. She knew he liked his black, with two teaspoonsful of brown sugar, and after handing him his cup she remained where she was to drink her own coffee.

  ‘I’ve just been asking Olivia about the men she met in Paris,’ remarked Shelley provokingly, accepting a biscuit from the proffered plate, and ignoring the warning in her friend’s eyes. ‘But she won’t talk.’ Her eyes sparkled with malicious amusement. ‘I think she’s met someone, but she’s not telling.’

  ‘Really, Shelley!’ exclaimed Olivia, glancing apprehensively at her stepbrother, but Richard was drinking his coffee with no visible signs of irritation. ‘You read too many romantic novels!’

  ‘Do I?’ Shelley was unrepentant. ‘You can’t blame me for being curious when you’ve obviously lost that dewy-eyed innocence you had before you went away.’

  Olivia was aghast, but Richard chose to intervene. ‘Perhaps you’re confusing maturity with experience, Shelley,’ he said, leaning past his stepsister to put his empty cup on the tray. ‘Naturally, Olivia’s growing up. It’s some time since you’ve seen her. But I doubt she’s wasted her time at St Helena’s making furtive assignations with unctuous Frenchmen!’

  ‘Some girls might not consider it a waste of time,’ Shelley persisted annoyingly, but Richard merely smiled.

  ‘Olivia went to France to learn—not to teach,’ he retorted smoothly, and Olivia felt a ridiculous shiver of ice run down her spine.

  Shelley shrugged, thwarted by their combined efforts, and turned her attention to other matters. ‘Are you coming to the Rotary Club Ball, Richard?’ she asked, watching as he withdrew the slim case of cheroots from his back pocket, and placed one between his lips. ‘Daddy said he’d spoken to you about it, but you said you weren’t sure of your movements.’

  ‘No, that’s right,’ Richard nodded, reaching for the heavy gold table lighter that resided beside the tray, and flicking it thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid I’m still not absolutely certain of my plans. Can I get Alex to give you a ring later in the week?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Shelley had to be satisfied with his answer, although Olivia noticed how her lips tightened as she tapped ash from her cigarette into an onyx tray. Shelley was pitifully transparent when it came to her feelings about Richard, and Olivia hoped her own features were not as revealing. It seemed as though everything Richard said underlined the role he had intended her to play in his affairs, and for all his charming manners, he was not a man to take defeat so easily. Her relaxation of the previous evening fled, and its place was taken by doubt and uncertainty, and impatience at her own lack of temerity.

  Realising that an awkward silence had fallen, Olivia made an effort to bring the conversation into less hazardous channels. ‘Have you had your holidays yet, Shelle
y?’ she asked, recalling what a sun-worshipper her friend was, and how the previous year she had talked of going to Madeira. But Shelley did all her father’s paperwork at the farm, as well as playing an active role in the local Young Farmers’ Association, and usually she took time off when the farm was less busy.

  ‘No,’ Shelley replied now, accepting a second cup of coffee. She glanced swiftly at Richard. ‘Things have been rather—hectic, and I was hoping to get away later on.’ She hesitated a moment, and then added: ‘Do you plan to take a holiday, Richard? Or do you find you can mix pleasure with business?’

  Richards features were guarded. ‘I enjoy my work,’ he replied, without expression. ‘But I’m hoping to take Olivia away for a few weeks. In about a month’s time.’

  This was the first Olivia had heard about it, and her eyes turned on him, wide and indignant. ‘I didn’t know that,’ she protested, all manner of reasons why she could not accept tumbling urgently through her mind. ‘You’ve never taken me on holiday before. When was all this arranged? Why should you take time——’

  The words were rash and ill-mannered, and she had not considered what she was about to say before they fell carelessly from her lips. She didn’t think about Shelley, sitting opposite, enjoying her discomfort, or realised how childish she sounded, expostulating like a schoolgirl being told what she must do.

  Richard’s darkening expression gradually acted as a deterrent to halt that reckless flow, his eyes steel-hard between the thick black lashes. ‘I believe we spent two weeks together last year,’ he retorted coldly, reminding her of the villa he had taken for her and Bella at Cap Ferrat, and she recalled reluctantly how he had interspersed his visit with trips to Rome and Athens. She remembered her own delight in having his company then, and the fun they had had together, and how disappointed she had been when he had had to leave.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she mumbled now, feeling rather foolish for jumping to conclusions. ‘You mean—Bella is coming, too. I’m sorry, I misunderstood you.’