by Anne Mather
‘Isn’t it?’ Reed looked sceptical. ‘I rather thought you thought it was.’ He rested his elbow on the table, and cupped his chin in his hand. ‘So, what is the reason for the way you’re looking at me? If it’s not that, it has to be something else.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
‘Am I?’ He picked up his glass again, and looked at her over the rim. ‘What if I say I think it has to do with what happened that night?’ He paused. ‘Do you want me to apologise? It’s a little late, but I’m quite prepared to do it, if it will do any good. You shouldn’t have walked out on me. I was quite sober in the morning.’
‘You—bastard!’
Helen would have got up then, but he wouldn’t let her, his hand imprisoning hers on the table. ‘I knew it,’ he said grimly, as she gazed at him with hate-filled eyes. ‘I knew there had to be a reason.’ He shook his head. ‘But just tell me—how was I supposed to know, hmm?’ He broke off as she had done earlier, but, unlike her, he didn’t need any prompting to continue when she didn’t answer him. ‘You should have told me,’ he said, thwarting her efforts to get free of him without too much difficulty. ‘I realise you won’t believe this now, but I don’t make a habit of seducing virgins, however willing they might appear.’
‘You’re right,’ said Helen harshly. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why not?’ He gazed at her consideringly. ‘You must have known I was attracted to you. For heaven’s sake, I still am! That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? If I hadn’t touched you just now—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Well, damn you, I do.’ He ground out the words. ‘Look—if you and Jon are going to have any kind of a future together, you and I have got to get this settled.’
‘Get what settled?’
‘This whole situation,’ said Reed heavily, releasing her arm now. And, although she could have left the table then, she didn’t. Instead, she stayed where she was, rubbing her wrist to restore the circulation.
Reed poured himself more wine, and she noticed, almost inconsequentially, that his hand was not quite steady, clattering the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass. It made him seem more vulnerable somehow, and although she didn’t want to feel any compassion for him she couldn’t help the feelings that rose inside her. And, as much to stifle them as anything, she said, ‘You—actually expect me to stay here?’
‘On the island? Yes. What else can you do?’ Reed’s mouth compressed. ‘If you haven’t told Jon about us yet, you can hardly do so now.’
Helen’s hands clenched together in her lap. ‘I—could.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Reed looked down into his glass. ‘Not unless you want to sever your—relationship completely.’
Helen bit her lip. ‘We don’t have that kind of—relationship.’
‘So what kind of relationship do you have?’ Reed enquired flatly. ‘I’d be interested to know.’
‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘No. So you said before.’
Helen frowned. ‘When?’
‘This morning.’ Reed’s lips curled. ‘You practically bit my head off for suggesting you might know if Jon was still in bed.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Helen had forgotten that.
‘However, it does surprise me,’ went on Reed levelly. ‘I mean—there have been other men in your life, haven’t there?’
For a moment, she didn’t understand him, and her face suffused with indignant colour. But then, the realisation of what he meant, and Alexa’s part in this, sobered her. She couldn’t arouse his suspicions now, by resenting what he saw as simple logic.
‘Yes,’ she said now, looking down at her hands. ‘There was—someone else.’
‘Just one someone?’ he enquired sceptically, and she knew a sudden desire to smash her fist into his sardonic face.
‘Oh, go to hell!’ she choked unwisely, scrubbing her knuckles across her cheeks, and she was frustrated to hear the betraying tremor in her voice.
‘No doubt I will,’ he countered, lifting his hand to massage the muscles at the back of his neck. ‘But, for now, I suggest we try and make some effort to be civil with one another.’
Helen shook her head. ‘Why should we?’ she demanded, disturbingly aware that his action had exposed the growth of hair that nestled in the hollow of his armpit. ‘What good will that do?’ she added, without really thinking what she was saying, anguished by the wave of heat that was threatening to consume her.
‘It might just persuade my son that you don’t hate my guts!’ muttered Reed, aware of her eyes upon him. ‘You’re not a convincing actress, Helen. I was already having doubts about you.’
‘So what?’
She refused to let him see how his words disturbed her, but Reed took her answer differently.
‘So,’ he said savagely, ‘it may be ten years since we meant anything to one another, but—’
‘We never meant anything to one another!’
‘—but, believe it or not, there are some things about you I just know. Call it a sixth sense, extra-sensory perception, anything you like. The fact remains, I did make some impression on your life, or you wouldn’t be acting as if I’d raped you! All right. I know what I did was wrong, but you weren’t exactly fighting me off.’
Helen gasped. ‘You flatter yourself.’
‘Do I?’
He was surveying her rather wearily now, and she knew that she had to distract his attention, before he saw something in her eyes she would rather he didn’t see.
‘And you’re bloody arrogant,’ she said, saying the first thing that came into her head. ‘I suppose it doesn’t occur to you to think that I might have wanted to forget that particular incident in my life, does it? Oh, no. Even after ten years, you still think you’re unforgettable!’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it,’ Reed exclaimed indignantly. ‘My God, I’ve never considered myself any great catch, believe me! And, as far as the past is concerned, we both know now that any prolonged association between us would have been totally impracticable.’
‘Why?’
The question should never have been voiced, but once again her tongue was running ahead of her brain, with disastrous consequences.
‘Why?’ Reed echoed the word wryly. ‘Well—I should have thought that was fairly obvious.’
Helen stiffened. ‘Because we are from different backgrounds?’ she asked scornfully, but Reed only shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘Don’t be naïve. You heard what Luther Styles said the other night. I’m Jon’s father, aren’t I? I knew I was too old for you then, and I should have had more sense. You must have thought so, too. Or you wouldn’t have walked out on me, would you?’
Helen’s teeth tore into her lower lip. She had ‘walked out’ on him, as he put it, for reasons she couldn’t begin to explain to him now. For one thing she had had her parents to think about. Even without the obvious connotations of what had happened, at sixteen she had been half afraid to face what she had done.
‘At least I know why you’ve been treating me like the devil incarnate,’ he said suddenly, emptying his glass with one defiant flourish. He tilted his head back and looked at her. ‘You never forgave me, did you? Will you believe me if I tell you I never forgave myself?’
Helen couldn’t take much more. ‘Can’t we just forget about it?’ she exclaimed at last. ‘Please—I don’t want to think about it any more.’
‘All right.’ Reed tipped up the wine bottle, found it was empty too, and scowled. ‘But I want to ask you one more thing.’
Helen pressed her knees together. ‘What?’
He pushed the bottle and glass aside and stretched across the table. Without giving her time to guess what he was about to do, he curved his fingers about her throat, and she gazed at him in horror as his hand slowly tightened.
‘I want to know why you walked out on me,’ he said, and she thought for a moment
that history was about to repeat itself. Only this time, he wasn’t drunk, just determined. ‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘Did I—hurt you?’
‘I—I—’ She could hardly speak, and as if just realising his own strength his fingers relaxed. ‘Yes.’ The word was choked. ‘Yes, you did,’ she lied unsteadily. And then, tearing his hand from her neck, she scrambled off the banquette. ‘I want you to take me back now,’ she added hoarsely, and leaving the table she crossed the floor, and stumbled up the stairs of the companionway.
CHAPTER NINE
OF COURSE, THAT was when she had been sick, Helen remembered now, halting by the french doors that led out on to her balcony; not on the journey home, as she had let Jon believe. For what had seemed like hours, she had knelt against the rail of the yacht, emptying her stomach into the translucent waters of the bay. She had gone on retching long after there was nothing left inside her to bring up, and running a hand over her flat midriff now, she felt the ache of muscles that had been badly abused.
And what had Reed said that had been so shattering, after all? Why had she been so upset because her masquerade was over? It wasn’t as if he had threatened to expose her to Jon. On the contrary, he had said he wanted to put things right between them because of Jon. Yet that wasn’t exactly what she had wanted to hear, and she didn’t know why.
And why had he wanted to know why she had left him that night? It wasn’t as if he had cared, one way or the other. She had thought—no, not thought—hoped, expected, believed, she would see him again, when she’d left the hotel in the early hours of the morning. He had known where she worked, after all. She had told him about the wine bar, letting him think she was supporting herself at college. But, six weeks later, when she’d discovered she was pregnant, he was not around. He hadn’t been around since that fateful night, and because of what had happened her parents had insisted she give up her part-time job.
Initially, she had never told anyone, not even her parents, who Alexa’s father was. She had let them think it was someone from the wine bar, who had taken her out and taken advantage of her. It was easier that way. To have explained that she had been seduced by a man nearly seventeen years her senior, a man her father could have traced, would have been too humiliating. Instead, she had insisted on having her baby, and they had agreed to help her.
She had half believed Reed must have been married. It had been some solace when she was feeling particularly low. It didn’t excuse what he had done, but it did explain why he had never tried to see her again. And, at that time, she had clutched at any straw.
It was obvious now that he had had no such commitment, so she should have been feeling even more anger towards him; but somehow she wasn’t. In fact, she felt empty inside, and it wasn’t just a physical condition, she admitted ruefully. It was as if all her life she had been waiting for this moment, and now that it had happened it was just an anticlimax.
Of course, there was still Alexa to consider. But at least her identity was no longer in jeopardy. Reed evidently assumed that, after their brief affair, there had been a procession of other men. It was galling to have him think it-but it afforded her daughter some protection.
She sighed. Fate was a funny thing. Just when you thought you had your life in shape, something happened to distort it. If she hadn’t met Jon in that bar in Germany, she wouldn’t be here. And if she hadn’t worked at the wine bar in Kensington, she would never have got to know Bryan Korda.
She sighed. Of course, to be absolutely fair, she shouldn’t have been working in the wine bar. She really hadn’t been old enough to work on licensed premises, but if she hadn’t been there Clive would not have asked her to help out at the Korda Gallery on the evening of the party. And if she hadn’t gone to the party, she wouldn’t have met Reed.
It was because Clive, who owned the wine bar, was a friend of her father’s that he had agreed to take her on. She had only worked there evenings, of course. During the day, she had attended the local secretarial college.
And, as it happened, the wine bar was next door to the Korda Gallery. Bryan Korda was a regular patron of Clive’s, and over the few months she worked there Helen had got to know him quite well. With his encouragement, she’d visited the gallery, and because she became interested in it he had spent a lot of time teaching her about art. In consequence, on the odd occasions when his receptionist was absent due to illness, or holidays, he had asked Helen to fill in for her. She couldn’t always do it, naturally. Her college work had always come first. But during her own holidays, and on the occasional evening, she had taken him up on his offer.
That was how she’d come to be there on the fateful evening of the exhibition. Clive had been asked to cater for the event, and, because casual waiters were not that easy to come by, he had had no hesitation in asking Helen if she would mind helping out.
Helen remembered she had been delighted to do it. She had been quite excited at the prospect of attending the party, in whatever capacity, and Bryan Korda had promised she would have plenty of time to enjoy herself. Looking back now, she suspected everyone had thought she was attracted to him, but that had never been a factor in their relationship. Even though he had been no older than Reed, she had never thought of him in that way. Indeed, until Reed came along she hadn’t had much interest in men, young or old, even though, working in the wine bar, she had had lots of propositions.
The night of the party, she had left home early to help Clive set up the bar in the gallery. She had worn a new outfit, she remembered: a red polyester shirt that looked like silk to her uncultured eyes, and black velvet trousers that had accentuated the length of her legs. Of course, looking back now, she recognised the fact that the clothes had made her look older than she was, but Clive had approved, and she had felt good.
The drinks had been set up, with Clive’s barman in charge, and the buffet tables had been laid with finger-food of all kinds. There had been hors-d’oeuvre of shrimp and caviare, quiches, vol-au-vents filled with spicy meats and chicken, sausage rolls, bacon rolls and lots of rich pies and tartlets. There had been a side of ham, a smoked salmon, she remembered, her stomach curdling a little at the thought, and an enormous bowl of punch, whose fruitful origins had been lavishly spliced with rum.
The guests had started arriving at about half-past six, but it was nearly seven before Reed appeared. Helen had known the minute he had arrived, because Bryan went rushing off to meet him, and her first glimpse of her nemesis had been across the heads of the other guests.
Of course, she had not expected to meet him herself. He had been the guest of honour, and, although Bryan could be charming when they were alone, on occasions like this he tended to panic. Besides, she really had had nothing to do with the exhibition. She was just a kid Bryan found it amusing to cultivate. Not someone who deserved a personal introduction.
All the same, Helen had found her eyes drawn to Reed again and again during the eve ning. She didn’t really know why. Bryan himself was more conventionally handsome than his visitor. But there had been something about Reed that attracted her, and she’d watched the women who warranted his attention with an undeniable feeling of envy.
He had seemed so worldly, so sophisticated, she reflected now. As well as tall, and lean, with clothes that fitted him in all the right places so that you were left in no doubt as to the width of his shoulders or the muscular power of his legs. And, whereas Bryan got all hot and bothered in situations like this, Reed evidently took it all in his stride. He was polite and well-mannered, he smiled frequently, and if he wasn’t a connoisseur he certainly knew enough about art to convince his attentive audience.
Helen sighed. She had been so naïve then, she thought impatiently. For the first time in her life, she had encountered a man whose personality had overridden all her preconceived ideas about sex. After all, he must have been in his early thirties at that time, with angular cheekbones, and deeply carved grooves beside his mouth. Not at all the kind of man she would have expected herself to
be attracted to. And yet from the moment he walked into the room she had been aware of him, and she had had to fight the urge to put herself within his charmed circle.
But she had met him, she remembered ruefully, though not in the way she would have wished. She had been circulating among the guests, offering a tray of champagne cocktails, when one of the older women had backed right into her.
Remembering it now, Helen still cringed at her initial reaction when the woman had barged into her. She had had no hope of saving the tray from disaster. The woman had been tall, and much more heavily built than Helen was. In addition to which she was teetering on ridiculously high heels, so that she lost her balance, and tried to grab Helen to save herself. In consequence, they all went down—Helen, the tray, and the woman.
Of course, it caused an immediate uproar, with people dodging out of the way of spilling champagne and flying glass. Bryan rushed across to see what was happening, and looking up into his infuriated face Helen knew he was going to blame her for what had happened. It didn’t help to discover that the woman who was presently being helped, protesting, to her feet was none other than Lady Elizabeth Benchley, one of the gallery’s most generous patrons. Nor that most of the liquid had fallen on the back of Lady Benchley’s gown, which just happened to be a Dior original.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Bryan was saying, over and over again, as Helen extricated herself from the tray, and scrambled to her feet. ‘That girl is so clumsy, you wouldn’t believe! What can I say? She should never have been allowed near a tray of drinks!’
‘Are you all right?’
It was as Helen was standing staring, red-faced, at Bryan and Lady Benchley that she heard the low attractive voice addressing her, and her breath caught in her throat.
‘I—I think so,’ she got out, turning jerkily to face him, and Reed touched her waist with a steadying hand.
‘You’re not cut, are you?’ he added, the distinct trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mobile mouth. ‘You both went down very—hard.’
