by Anne Mather
‘Olivia …’ His voice came softly. ‘Olivia, are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ The word whispered through the shadows. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I thought I heard something,’ replied Richard tersely, and she guessed he had heard her fists on the pillows.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said now. ‘I—I was trying to beat my pillows into shape. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘Mmm …’ Richard sounded doubtful, but he withdrew slightly, drawing the door closed behind him.
‘Richard!’
His name tumbled out incautiously, and she sensed his stiffening as he turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Did—did you get the message?’
‘About your headache?’ he enquired sceptically. ‘Oh, yes, Janice told me.’
‘It was true!’ Olivia levered herself completely upward now, sitting back on her heels and regarding him with indignant eyes. ‘I—I did have a headache.’
‘But now it’s better?’ he remarked dryly, and she pursed her lips.
‘Bella gave me some aspirin,’ she protested, and he lifted a warning hand.
‘Keep your voice down! Do you want to wake the whole house?’
‘I doubt that’s likely,’ she retorted tautly. ‘It’s three o’clock.’ She paused. ‘You’re very late.’
Richard’s face was in shadow, but his reaction was revealing. ‘Yes, I am,’ he agreed, his tone reproving. ‘But that’s no concern of yours.’
‘Did you take Shelley home?’
‘And if I did?’
Olivia shifted uncomfortably. ‘Did you?’
Richard sighed, leaning back against the frame of the door, regarding her with evident impatience. ‘Go to sleep, Olivia,’ he advised her harshly. ‘I’m not in the mood right now to discuss personal matters with you. We’ll talk in the morning, after Merignac has departed.’
‘You’re so sure he will be departing, aren’t you?’ she declared, leaning forward to shake her pillows once more. ‘And that I won’t be going with him!’
‘Oh, God!’
With a groan, Richard moved the few inches necessary to allow him to close the door, but Olivia sprang out of bed and wrenched the door open again before he had a chance to stride away along the corridor.
‘Richard!’ she cried, halting him in his tracks. ‘I’ve got to talk to you now!’
In the lamplight, his face was haggard, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. When he turned to face her, she couldn’t suppress the gasp of dismay that escaped her, and in anxious tones she exclaimed: ‘What have you been doing?’
Hunching his shoulders, he made an offhand gesture. ‘Driving.’
‘Driving?’ She was perplexed. ‘Driving where?’
‘Anywhere,’ he retorted wearily. ‘Now, can I go to bed? Or is there something else you want to say?’
Olivia moved her head slowly from side to side, and with a curt nod Richard turned away and walked the few yards to his own door. He didn’t look back as he went into his room, and with a feeling of dissatisfaction Olivia padded back to her own bedroom.
But sleep was unthinkable. She didn’t even attempt it. She couldn’t forget how Richard had looked, or how responsible he had made her feel, and switching on the lamp, she paced restlessly about the soft carpet, curling her toes into its comforting pile. Why had Richard chosen to drive himself to the point of exhaustion? What had it achieved?
Had he been alone? This new speculation shed an entirely different light on the situation. Maybe he had not. Maybe—Shelley had been with him. Maybe his weariness stemmed from other demands she had made upon him.
Olivia paused before the long mirror of her wardrobe, and stared at her reflection. Richard had scarcely noticed her, after all. Even in her nightgown, he had spared her only the most cursory of glances, and she could imagine how slim and boyish she must seem after Shelley’s voluptuous charms.
She turned away. She must stop thinking like this. Richard was entitled to do as he wished, and her only concern should be for his welfare. He had looked ill, that much was obvious, and she wished there was something she could do to help him. But he wouldn’t welcome her assistance, and besides, she hadn’t even an aspirin to offer him.
The sudden crash which seemed to reverberate around the house petrified her for a moment. Then, realising it had come from across the hall, she crossed the room and wrenched open her door, waiting tremulously for Bella to appear.
But Bella’s flat was on the ground floor of the house, and perhaps she was too deeply asleep to hear anything. Perhaps the noise had only sounded so loud because of Olivia’s highly sensitised condition, and really it had been no more than a falling shoe.
She chewed hard on her lower lip. It had been louder than that, she would swear it, and visions of Richard, unconscious on the floor, tortured her imagination. Sighing, she hesitated only a moment longer before crossing the hall and tapping tentatively at her stepbrother’s door.
The fact that the door was thrown open almost immediately should have warned her that Richard was in no mood to suffer intruders gladly. He had shed his jacket and shirt, and was in the process of unbuckling his belt when she interrupted him, his hair unruly, as if he had raked his fingers through it rather frequently.
‘I know,’ he said shortly, before she could speak, his mouth a thin line, ‘I knocked my razor into the hand basin. Does that satisfy you?’
Olivia’s lips parted soundlessly. His anger was unexpected, and it took a moment for her to gather herself. Then she said: ‘I—yes. Yes. Thank you. I—I’m sorry if I disturbed you——’
She turned away, intent only on reaching the comparative sanctuary of her room, when Richard caught her arm. His fingers were hard around her soft flesh, biting into the creamy skin, leaving marks Olivia knew would be there long after he had withdrawn them.
‘No,’ he said heavily, as she would have resisted, ‘it’s I who should apologise. I was careless. I’m sorry if I upset you.’
‘You—you didn’t upset me,’ Olivia replied, looking up at him with concern mirrored in her pale features. But something in his face disturbed her, some elemental emotion in the depths of his eyes that froze the breath in her throat and drove her hand to her lips. ‘Oh, no, Richard,’ she protested huskily, moving her head from side to side. ‘No!’
‘You shouldn’t have come here, Olivia,’ he muttered softly, while those strong fingers drew her towards him, and his free hand closed the door behind her, leaving her alone with him in the dusky, lamplit familiarity of his bedroom.
She pressed her back against the door, the panels digging through the thin fabric of her nightshirt, and he watched her impotent efforts through half closed eyes. His arousal communicated itself to her, and she dragged her eyes away from his to gaze desperately about the room. But its warmth and intimacy offered no security, and her eyes were drawn back to the muscular strength of his body with unwilling compulsion.
‘Richard,’ she whispered. ‘Richard, what are you doing …’ but his intentions were painfully evident.
Moving closer, he imprisoned her against the door with the whole weight of his body, and she could feel every powerful muscle of his legs. Even then, in that state of suspended animation, it was impossible not to be aware of her own instinctive response to his disturbing masculinity, and because of this she was fighting herself as well as him.
‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he said again, bending his head to caress the hollow of her shoulder with his lips. ‘You knew how I felt about you. You knew I wanted to make love to you. Don’t pretend that hasn’t been obvious ever since you returned from Paris.’
‘You—you’ve been with Shelley,’ Olivia gulped wildly. ‘You must have taken her home. How can you touch me after—after being with her!’
Richard’s thumbs probed her lips, his fingers moving sensuously behind her ears. ‘Jealous?’ he asked, a wry amusement parting his lips, though his breath was quickening in concert with hers. ‘I didn’t—touch She
lley. I haven’t touched any woman. Not since you came home.’
‘Oh, Rich …’
Her voice was tormented, and the passionate darkening of his eyes was no less disturbing than the heated scent of his skin, only inches away from her face. ‘Say that again,’ he urged softly, and when she looked puzzled, he commanded: ‘My name! The way you said it just now—it was good.’
‘Rich!’ She wasn’t really complying with his request, more appealing to his better judgment. ‘Rich, let me go …’
‘I can’t.’
His voice had thickened, and even as she opened her mouth to protest, his took possession. His lips were warm, persuasive, increasingly demanding, sending her senses spinning. She had to clutch at him as the wine-sweet darkness gripped her and her knees buckled, and she was hardly aware of his fingers unlacing her nightshirt until it dropped in a pool about her ankles.
The coolness of the night air against her overheated flesh was briefly sobering. With a little gasp of dismay, Olivia tore her mouth from his, and would have bent to retrieve the nightgown if he had let her.
‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ he murmured huskily. ‘Wait …’ and his hand went automatically to the belt of his pants.
‘No, Rich, no!’
With a superhuman effort she lunged for the handle of the door, but he was too quick for her. Before she could prevent him, he used her momentary lack of balance to swing her off her feet, and carried her across the room to the bed.
But when he deposited her on the soft sheets, drawn back by Bella earlier in the evening, she scrambled frantically out of his reach, and he had to mount the bed to imprison her, one hand on either side of her.
‘Don’t be a little fool,’ he said unevenly, his eyes devouring her. ‘You’re mine—I told you. I’ll never let you go.’
Olivia twisted from side to side. ‘I—I’ll hate you,’ she threatened futilely, but he wasn’t listening to her. He was removing the rest of his clothes, and she turned her head aside from the sight of his powerful body.
‘Rich …’ she breathed, desperate now. ‘Rich, please …’ but he had bent his head to caress her breasts with his lips, and with a tearful groan of despair she doubted she had the strength to deny him.
When the muscular weight of him descended upon her, crushing her down into the soft mattress, she knew that she was lost. His lips were on hers again, and their seductive teasing was destroying whatever resistance she still possessed. He was not forcing her response, he was inducing it, using all the expertise he undoubtedly possessed to arouse her own deepest needs. She quivered under his caressing hands, his exploring mouth, at once inflamed and repelled by the things he was doing to her. Yet his actions robbed her of all fear, and the desire to give in to him created a curious ache inside her. She wanted to push him away, but her arms entwined themselves around his neck, and when his legs parted hers, she yielded to the demands of physical fulfilment …
The coolness of morning awakened her. It was light when she opened her eyes, that pale light of dawn, without the warming rays of the sun to give it life and colour. It filtered through the heavy curtains Richard had drawn the night before, dispelling the intimacy of the room, turning everything grey and chilling.
At first, Olivia didn’t identify with her surroundings. She thought she was back in her austere little room at the Academy. But then she realised she knew the sombre colours of the master bedroom at Copley, and twisting her head sharply, she saw Richard’s still sleeping form.
A painful tightness gripped her throat as she stared at him. He looked so innocent in sleep, his dark hair tousled, the harsh planes of his face softened into vulnerability. She wondered painfully how many women had seen him this way, and whether any of them felt as she did now, hurt, and confused, and full of self-disgust.
She shifted cautiously beneath the single sheet he had drawn over them, but he did not stir, even though his arm was flung across her, imprisoning her beside him. He was deeply and soundly asleep, completely relaxed and contented, secure in the knowledge that he had been the first man to take possession of her.
A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled unheeded down her cheek. If only she could despise him as deeply as she despised herself! It was useless to blame him entirely for what had happened. She had challenged his right to rule her life, and he had subdued her in the most basic way of all—and she had let him …
She turned her head towards the windows, refusing to look at him. He was so sure of himself, of her, so sure he knew what was best for her. He hadn’t talked about love or emotion. Since her return from Paris, he had seen her as an attractive female, and because his plans for her were being thwarted, he had decided to punish her, and in so doing satisfy his own desires.
She twisted her head back again, then pressed her lips together against the surge of unwilling emotion that gripped her. She didn’t want to remember the feeling Richard had aroused in her, the trembling agony which had given way to an ecstatic delight. He had known every part of her, reduced her to a clinging supplicant, begging for the urgency of his body. She had lost all self-respect in his arms, wantonly accepting his every demand, until they had fallen into the sleep of exhaustion, closely wrapped in one another’s arms …
But it was morning now, and the night before seemed little more than a crazy dream. That it had happened was evident in the aching muscles of her lower limbs, in the feeling of lethargy that still gripped her, and Richard’s sleeping body beside her, proclaiming its possession in the confining weight of his arm. Nevertheless, the implications of what had happened could not be overlooked. Richard’s reasons for doing what he had, his determination to stop her from leaving at all costs, were the bitter dregs she had to swallow, and the realisation that from now on he would feel he had the right to rule her life.
She turned her head again, and carefully, levering herself upward, managed to extricate herself from him. He slumped a little lower on the pillows, pushing his face into their silken softness, but he still did not waken, and Olivia trembled as she slid her feet to the floor.
Her nightshirt still lay by the door, where Richard had removed it, and hastily she skipped across the room and slipped it over her head. With its enveloping folds covering her to knee-length, she felt a little less vulnerable, but she was still shivering, as much from reaction as from the chilly morning air.
On impulse she looked into Richard’s dressing table mirror, smoothing the traces of tears from her cheeks with her fingertips. She didn’t look any different, she saw with some relief. A little tired, perhaps. There were dark rings around her eyes. But then she hadn’t slept much at all, and warm colour spread around her fingers at the acknowledgment of this silent admission.
Turning, she looked back at the bed. Beneath the thin sheet, Richard’s legs were outlined in powerful relief. For a moment she knew the most ridiculous temptation to tear the sheet from him and look once more on his muscular body, but she turned aside, despising herself for allowing a purely physical beauty to destroy all the faith she had had in herself. Her eyes alighted on the photograph of herself he kept beside his bed. That schoolgirlish image seemed the cruellest cut of all. She had been so happy then, so secure. Now Richard had destroyed that security once and for all.
Pressing a hand to her mouth, she rushed across the carpet, opening his door as silently as she could in her condition, and escaping from the room with nausea rising in her throat.
In her own bathroom, she was violently sick, and afterwards, leaning weakly against the tiled wall, she acknowledged that she could no longer fool herself into thinking she could stay at Copley now. Last night Richard had destroyed the temptation she had known to give in to his demands, and she refused to stay here, her presence a constant reassurance to him that he had done the right thing. She would not become another of his women, a useful bedmate when he chose to stay at Copley, a paid employee, who just happened to be his mistress.
Washing her face in cold water, she clea
ned her teeth, ran a comb through her hair, and dressed in the first clothes to hand. She threw the amber chiffon gown aside and pulled on navy blue denims and a round-necked pink sweat shirt. The simple outfit was unconsciously provocative, but she was unaware of it, intent only on accomplishing her objective, that of speaking to Jules and asking him to take her away with him, as far away from Copley as it was possible to go.
She knew which room Bella had assigned to their guest, and leaving her bedroom again, she hurried along the corridor. She paid little heed to the fact that it was barely six-thirty, or that Jules might not take kindly to being awakened so early. She was only concerned with making her arrangements as quickly as she could.
A knock at Jules’s door produced no result, so she turned the handle, entering the room with some misgivings as the memory of the night before flicked her like a knife. Like her stepbrother, Jules was still fast asleep, the only difference being that he slept on his back, with his mouth slightly open.
‘Jules!’
Her whispered intonation was useless, and approaching the bed, she bent over him, shaking his shoulder. Also unlike Richard, he was wearing pyjamas, and their silkiness made Olivia’s skin creep. Would it always be like this? she wondered despairingly. Would she always associate everything with Richard?
‘Jules!’ Her voice was louder near his ear. ‘Jules, wake up! I want to leave.’
‘Hmm? Quoi? Qui est-ce? Que desirez-vous?’
‘C’est moi, Jules.’ Olivia resorted to French in an effort to wake him. ‘It’s me! Olivia! Oh, wake up, Jules, do!’
With much groaning and blinking of his eyes, Jules succeeded in pushing himself up on his pillows, his expression hardly reassuring even when he recognised who it was.
‘Do you realise what time it is?’ he demanded, his hair rumpled and standing on end. ‘Six o’clock! Olivia, are you mad?’
