Darling Deceiver

by Daphne Clair

  'Sorry, Mr Franklin, Just checking up,' he said.

  'Oh, for God's sake ! ' Cade sounded thoroughly fed up.

  'We saw you going out, and when it got dark and you weren't back, we thought we'd better make sure— Well, I guess you're all right. Goodnight.'

  His shadowy figure disappeared along the sand, and an empty silence fell behind him.

  Cade was standing slightly away from her, as Carissa pushed her hair back behind her ears and tried to restore her feelings and her breath to normal. 'We'd better go in,' she said, as soon as she felt she could trust her voice.

  Cade stretched his hand out to her like a challenge rather than an invitation, testing if she was still in the same mood.

  She walked right past him, ignoring it. Ignoring, too, the sharp intake of his breath before he fell-into step beside her.

  They walked back in silence, but every nerve in her body was conscious of his presence—and the furious frustration of his mood. She felt frightened and excited and appalled at herself, all at the same time. She must

  have been mad. She was mad. He could make her crazy with a touch, forgetting the past, the future, the utter futility of thinking about any sort of lasting relationship with a man like Cade. She must never let him touch her again, never give in even for a moment to the temptation of his kisses. Her emotional equipment wouldn't stand for it.

  The minute they got into the house she said hastily, 'I'm going to bed.'

  'With me,' he stated flatly.

  'No! ' He had turned on the light, and his eyes were narrowed and dangerous. 'Not with you,' she said, stopping herself just in time from saying, I'm sorry. She should say it, because only ten minutes ago she had been clinging to him and letting him make love to her like a girl who was incapable of saying no. Which she had been, then. If ever a man was led on, she supposed he had been. So she certainly owed him some kind of apology, only for some reason he always reacted' strongly to her apologies, and she was well aware that he was strung up and likely to do something fairly violent if she provoked him.

  'No?' His question was soft but meaningful; and she battled down the nervous trembling that threatened to weaken her.

  'That's what I said,' she stated bravely, her chin at a defiant angle.

  'Would you have said it—out there?'

  'I'm saying it now.' She hoped that sounded final, as she made to pass him and go up the stairs.

  He hardly moved at all, but he was suddenly effectively blocking her way. 'Supposing I say otherwise?'

  'You don't have the right.' She tried to sound calm and confident, sure of herself.

  `Does Morris?' he asked harshly. 'If he wants rights, he should give you a ring. You're not wearing his ring.' He paused. 'You're wearing mine.'

  After a moment's silence Carissa said, 'You know that means nothing. It's play-acting.'

  'Were you play-acting out there?'

  She looked away from him and said in a low voice, 'No.' Her eyes lifted and she said, 'You know I wasn't. But I don't want to follow it up. I'm not the type for a casual affair.'

  His eyebrows rose a fraction and he smiled mockingly. 'What "type" is that? I never met a woman who would admit she was "that type". They all persuade themselves that theirs is a fashionably "meaningful" relationship. At least men tend to be more honest.'

  'With themselves, perhaps. Not with women.'

  'What does that mean?' she asked.

  'That men make promises—and pretend love, to get what they want.'

  His eyes were cool and steady. 'Did I promise you anything? Did I say I loved you?'

  'No.'

  'I want. you. And don't pretend you don't feel the same. Isn't it enough?'

  'Not for me '

  'You would rather have the lies?'

  'I would rather have nothing! I don't want anything without love.'

  He looked at her with a kind of weary cynicism. 'I don't know how to love,' he said. 'I never learned.'

  Appalled, Carissa blinked. 'What sort of life have you had?'

  'A good one,' he drawled, 'these last dozen years. My childhood was rough, but it was a good preparation for life in a jungle. And that's what my world is—a jungle. The survival of the fittest and all those old clichés. Well, I survived. Even though I'was blind, I survived.'

  'Without love?'

  'It wasn't necessary.

  'No one can say that!'

  I say it!' He looked arrogant and challenging, his head thrown back, thumbs hooked into the belt of his trousers, his feet planted apart.

  'Well—' she tried to look nonchalant, edging past him, 'then you certainly don't need me!'

  'I said I want you,' he reminded her, hooking her back to him with a negligent arm, holding her easily against him. 'Not need—not love.'

  His voice lowered and he caught her wrist as she pushed against him; holding it and curving his other arm tighter to stop her struggles. His lips brushed warmly on her temple and her cheek, sliding to her throat and into the opening of the caftan. 'You want love?' he murmured. 'Teach me, lovely Carissa. Teach me about love.'

  She fought him, her will to resist strengthened by his cynicism, the mockery in his voice as he kissed her throat and shoulder, and brushed his lips teasingly against hers.

  He went on touching her with his lips and his hands, and she knew, he was waiting for the inevitable capitulation, and when it didn't come he kissed her mouth with savage anger, holding her still with a handful of her hair cruelly bunched in his fingers.

  .`Let me go!' she exclaimed fiercely when he lifted his head at last.

  `Why? Stop fighting me, you little fool.

  said, let me go!'

  He laughed, looking down at her furious face, holding her tautly resistant body with insulting ease. 'Make me,' he teased confidently.

  He suddenly shifted his grip and swung her up into his arms, and was half-way up the stairs before she realised what he was about.

  She hit at his face and kicked wildly, and he stopped and said in a hard voice, 'If you send us both down the

  stairs, there's no saying who might end up with a broken neck. not letting you go.'

  She subsided then until he reached the top, but as he kicked open the door of her bedroom, she raked her nails across his face, and had the satisfaction of seeing him wince before he dropped her on the bed and caught her flailing arms against it, holding her down.

  He looked with narrowed eyes at her flushed, defiant rage, and said, 'Okay, I get the message. You don't want me right now.'

  'I don't want you—ever!'

  'There was a time when you weren't so choosy,' he drawled. 'I don't remember you insisting on love and promises in Sydney.' -

  Shock made her limp, suddenly. 'Sydney?' she repeated faintly.

  `Eight years ago, wasn't it?' he said pleasantly. Then, with faint contempt, 'You haven't forgotten, Carissa. No girl forgets her first lover.'

  She was silent with horror. She was so sure he hadn't remembered her, hadn't recalled her name, when they were introduced.

  'Lost-for words?' he jeered softly. 'Well, that's -a change.'

  How long have you known?' she whispered. 'I thought—you'd forgotten. You never saw me.'

  His voice hard; he said, 'I don't forget things like that. God knows I tried. Do you think I'd forget your name? Carrie didn't ring a bell, when Morris talked ' about you, but Carissa Martin certainly did. It's not a common name—you're the only girl I've known called Carissa. And the minute I heard your voice, I knew for sure.'

  He stood up, and she put the back of one hand over her eyes, feeling shattered and vulnerable. 'You're one girl I remember very well,' he said.

  She didn't hear him leave, but when she lowered her

  hand, having overcome an urgent need to cry, he was gone.

  It was a long time before she dragged herself from the bed to wash and change into night clothes, and the tears remained locked in her aching throat until she finally went to sleep, in the early hours of morning
.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT might have been better if she had cried that night. Some of the tension within her might have been eased by it.

  She was wary about Cade after that episode, knowing that when she showed it he was annoyed. She watched with trepidation the tightening of his mouth when she avoided any physical contact with him, the broodingly cynical look he gave her when she took a book from the shelf and sat as far from him as possible in the evening. They had been here nearly a week, and there was no word from Morris, and the angels reported no new developments, either.

  'On Sunday night, Carissa sat reading and Cade was staring out of the window at the other side of the room, into the swiftly falling dark.

  'Come for a walk,' he said.

  She turned a page composedly and said, 'No, thank you. You go.'

  want you to come.'

  She looked up with false calm and said, 'Sorry, I don't want to.'

  She thought for a moment he was going to drop the subject, then he said, 'I understood you were here to entertain me and gratify' my every wish—with the possible exception of one.'

  She waited several seconds before putting her book

  down with an air of reluctance, and getting to her feet.

  'I'm sorry, sir,' she said dulcetly, not caring that it

  would make him angry. 'Where would you like to go?'

  His mouth tightened and a muscle moved in his jaw.

  She thought he might change his mind, but he said,

  `Get a jacket or something. It gets chilly at night.'

  It did sometimes, and she went upstairs and fetched a light wool shawl and tossed it about her shoulders, taking her time.

  Cade had got a torch and instead of going to the lake he turned along one of the paths leading into the bush, leaving her to follow. But as they began to climb the slight slope between the tall totara, kahikatea and tawa, he took her arm in a firm hand, keeping her close by him.

  A rabbit scampered away in front of them, white tail briefly flashing' before it disappeared from the torch light, and Carissa gave a small, breathy laugh.

  `I haven't heard you laugh lately,' Cade commented.

  'There hasn't been much to laugh about.'

  They walked on in silence, and then Cade pushed her without haste but firmly on to a smooth-trunked log which had fallen near the path.

  `I want to see the night life,' he said. 'Are there kiwis here?'

  `Probably,' she said.

  `Then perhaps we'll be lucky. Keep still and keep quiet.'

  'ile switched off the torch, and they waited. At first she was conscious of nothing but the overwhelming darkness and the tingling awareness of her body to the presence of the man who sat with his arm loosely about her shoulders.

  Then the small sounds of the night filtered into her consciousness—a faint rustling as a breeze or perhaps a nocturnal animal stirred the leaves overhead, the gentle creak of a swaying branch, a morepork calling mournfully far away, the occasional chirp of an insect nearby, and the dry stirring of the leaves that carpeted the forest floor.

  Cade switched on the torch, transfixing an opossum in its beam, saucer-eyes staring yellow, bushy tail erect,

  its hand-like paws clutching a forest berry between them as it stared back at them.

  Then it dropped the berry and leaped for the nearest tree, scampering up its trunk, long claws digging into the trunk as it scrambled out of sight.

  A few minutes later another rabbit skittered into view, and loped off again quickly as Cade caught it in the torchlight. Then he turned the light on to the leaves at their feet and began idly turning them over with a stick. Carissa felt her skin prickle as she saw the first insects scurry away from the light, but after a few minutes she found herself fascinated by the evidence of teeming life under their feet. Busy beetles scurried back and forth, moths hovered here and there and darted off into the trees, ants tracked purposefully about their business, and a cicada grub emerged before their eyes from its long underground life to find a convenient tree to attach itself to while it worked on emerging from its skin and shaking its wings free for tomorrow's sun.

  But when a two inch brown weta crawled out from an overturned rotten branch at Cade's restless probing, she jumped up and said, 'Oh, please, Cade, let's go. I hate those things.'

  'What is it?' he asked curiously.

  'A weta. They jump—and they can bite. Don't touch it!'

  `Okay,' he shrugged, and took her arm to lead her back down the path, shining the torch ahead of them. `You haven't seen your kiwi,' she said.

  `Maybe another time. Were you brought up in this sort of place?'

  `Not exactly. I was born on a farm—there was a bit of bush on it. When I was ten we moved to Auckland. But we had lots of holidays in places like this. Lakes and beaches.'

  `It's a good country for kids, isn't it?'

  `I suppose it is.'

  'There are good places for kids in America, too, I guess. Only I didn't see any of them until it was too late.'

  'Too late for what?'

  'For me.' He paused, then said, 'I was brought up on the streets of New York—the wrong side of them. I Wouldn't want that for my kids.'

  'Are you planning to have any?'

  She thought he wasn't going to answer; but eventually he said, 'You mean, I'm putting the cart before the horse, don't you? The love and marriage bit comes first, then the kids?' He laughed, a short, harsh sound. 'You're a sentimentalist, aren't you? You didn't want to wear my "mother's" ring because marriage is sacred. Don't worry—Jack bought it, second hand.'

  Hurt and angry, Carissa was silent, and he didn't speak again either, until they were nearly out of the trees. Then he said, 'What about a moonlight swim?'

  The lake rippled silver in the moonlight, and for a crazy moment she was tempted.

  `I'm afraid it's too cold for me,' she said.

  'Is it the cold that you're afraid of? Or is it me?' `Of course I'm not afraid of you!'

  'then perhaps you should be.'

  'Is that what you want?'

  `To frighten you? No. You know what I want.' `I can't oblige,' she said firmly.

  'Can't?'

  `Won't, then. I won't be another of your procession of adoring women,' she said bitterly.

  He said coldly, 'But you already have been—once.' `Once was enough. It wasn't an enjoyable experience,' she said, bitterly.

  For a few moments he was silent, and she had the idea that she had shaken him a little.

  As they reached the door and he opened it, he slid

  his hand under the shawl and touched her arm. 'You're not cold,' he said. 'Get your swimsuit.' 'Please—I don't feel like swimming.'

  She blinked as he switched on the light, and he looked down at her face for a few moments. 'Then sit

  on the sand and keep me company,' he said. 'Will you?'

  He took her by surprise, asking like that, instead of reminding her that pleasing him was part of her job. She nodded, and waited for him as he went upstairs to get changed.

  He came down looking brown and masculine in dark swim shorts with a towelling robe slung over his shoulders, and she turned to fumble with the door handle so that she wouldn't stare.

  They went out into the softness of the night, and she sat on the pale strip of sand while Cade splashed into the lake and created broken lights on the moon-glossed water.

  A night breeze stirred her hair and lifted the tassels on the shawl, and she closed her eyes and rested her head on her raised knees in front of her, trying to make her mind a blank, to damp down a faint hint of regret That she had refused to join Cade in a swim. It would have been far too dangerous, ...

  She didn't know he had come out until a drop or two of cold water splashed on to the nape of her neck, and she looked up to find him towelling his hair. Water gleamed on his body and legs in the moonlight, and she was ashamed of the sudden wave of desire that warmed her body as she watched him.

  He stooped to pick up the
robe and fling it round his shoulders, then hooked the towel about his neck. Carissa stood up hastily and he said, 'You wouldn't like to dally in the moonlight for a while?'

  'I want to have a hot drink and go to bed.' She

  couldn't resist adding, 'Besides, aren't you forgetting your guardian angels?'

  Surprisingly, she heard him laugh as they started back to the house. 'They wouldn't be likely to make that mistake twice.'

  A few minutes later he caught at her arm, his fingers hurting her, and pulled her to a dead stop. She looked up questioningly, then followed his gaze to the shadows near the door, stiffening as one detached itself.

  The next moment she found herself flung roughly on to the lawn, and a man's sharp voice said, 'Okay! It's Pat! Steady on, Mr Franklin.'

  Struggling to her feet, she heard Cade say furiously, `You bloody fool! If I'd had a gun I'd have killed you. What the hell are you playing at?'

  'We thought we heard someone at the gate. Didn't see anything, but I thought I'd better check out the house. You didn't lock the door.'

  'Well, next time I will,' said Cade, not quite pleasantly: 'You're very conscientious, but I wish you'd shown yourself sooner and more clearly.'

  'Didn't mean to give you a fright, sir. Sorry.' In clipped tones, Cade said, 'Goodnight, Pat.' I'll hang about for a while, in case. Don't mind me.'

  Pat moved away into the darkness.

  Carissa was standing on the lawn, conscious now that her side ached and she had grazed her forearm when Cade pushed her. Her shawl lay on the ground, , and he came and picked it up, replacing it around her shoulders.

  'Are you all right?' he asked.

  'Yes.'

  But he took her arm and she winced away from him, making him look at her sharply; then pull her into the house by her wrist. He locked the door behind them and turned to her when he had switched on the light.

  'I only pushed you to keep you out of any trouble

  coming my way,' he said, as though he had made some determined effort to speak calmly.