Too Scared to Love

by Cathy Williams

  ‘No problem.’ He shrugged, moving to pour himself a cup of coffee. ‘There was nothing I couldn’t handle on my own.’

  He had not shaved and the stubble darkening his chin gave him a rakish appearance. Was it really any wonder, looking like that, that he was so confident when it came to the opposite sex?

  She caught his eye, and it was on the tip of her tongue to make a teasing quip about his lack of modesty, but she refrained, only realising that he had followed her train of thought exactly when he raised one eyebrow with dry amusement.

  ‘Do you think we’ll be able to leave this morning?’ she asked hurriedly. She could keep her composure if there were no personal undercurrents running between them. That complicated things, made her uneasy and self-conscious, and far too aware of his lethal brand of sexuality for her own good. And when that happened it was as if some key in her had been turned, winding her up and making her act out of character.

  He gave the matter a few minutes’ thought. ‘There’s been no snow overnight,’ he said slowly, ‘and the road’s bad, but not totally impassable. Of course, it’ll take us some time to get to the main road, but once we’re there we shouldn’t have a problem. The main road will be clear enough for traffic.’

  ‘And your meeting?’

  ‘Has been rearranged.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘I called the people concerned to tell them that it was off.’

  Roberta smiled, relaxing at this undemanding strain of small talk. ‘I bet they must have loved you waking them up at some ungodly hour in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘They’re accustomed to it. They don’t receive massive salaries for nine-to-five days. Mr Ishikomo was decidedly relieved not to have to face a journey in this weather. I don’t think he likes our Canadian snow very much.’

  He walked towards the kitchen to wash up his mug and Roberta followed him with her eyes, sensible enough to realise that it was too easy to be lulled into a false sense of security when he was like this. She was in full command of herself now, but one look from him, one unnecessary touch, had the ability of making her foundations very shaky.

  He began packing a bag with tinned food, and she asked ingenuously, ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Emergency provisions,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘It pays to be cautious in this weather. Have you got any likes or dislikes when it comes to cans?’

  She approached him and stood a few feet away, surveying the stock which he obligingly held up one by one for her inspection. Corned beef, tuna, salmon, crackers, beans of various description.

  ‘Is all that really necessary?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘There’s enough food there to feed the starving millions.’

  He laughed at that, a deep-throated laugh that made her mouth go dry.

  When he had finished, he hand-picked two bottles of wine and carefully placed them on top. ‘If you’re stuck in snow,’ he drawled, ‘you might as well freeze to death in a good mood.’

  She grinned reluctantly, not wanting to respond to him, not wanting to like him, but finding it difficult to be churlish.

  He had started the engine of the car, and when they finally slipped into the seats it was beautifully warm. He was driving. She had probably, he said, seen enough of their wintry driving conditions to last a lifetime.

  Just clearing the small road out was arduous. They moved at a snail’s pace, creeping along while the dark skies threatened more snow. It was only when they at last made it to the main road that she felt him relax next to her, and they built up a bit more speed.

  Roberta lay back against the seat and closed her eyes, and gradually settled into a light doze. When she next opened her eyes, it was to discover that the car had stopped, and Grant was staring at her with an odd expression in his eyes. He turned away abruptly and she asked, dazed, ‘Have we arrived back already?’

  ‘That’s a bit optimistic,’ he said drily. ‘I thought that since we didn’t eat anything for breakfast we might as well stop off here for a bite.’

  Roberta rubbed her eyes and yawned, still languorous with sleep. ‘Must we?’ She yawned again. ‘Anyway, I’m surprised you can’t rustle something up one-handed with all those cans you packed. Scrambled eggs, mushrooms and pancakes out of two tins of salmon and a pack of biscuits.’ She stretched, blushing in confusion when he said lazily,

  ‘You ought to sleep more often in a car. You wake up in a decidedly humorous frame of mind.’

  The lazy teasing in his voice got rid of her last vestiges of drowsiness and she looked around her, her eyes finally resting on the small diner he had stopped in front of.

  When he came around to open her door for her she peered at him suspiciously, very tempted to ask, why are you being so nice? Had he completely forgotten the accusations and bitterness that had seethed between them the night before?

  She didn’t trust this sudden change from aggressive anger to easy charm. It unsettled her, made her think that she ought to be on the look-out for sudden moves. He was, she thought, the equivalent of a well-fed tiger: temporarily content, but only a fool would ignore its latent danger.

  She edged past him quickly, only falling into step as they approached the small diner which turned out to be cheerful and quite full, mostly with men who all seemed to be on a first-name basis with the waitresses.

  They sat at a small table and Roberta ravenously consumed a plateful of glorious, sizzling Canadian streaky bacon, a fried egg and four slices of toast.

  ‘Maybe I was just a little hungry after all,’ she said defensively, catching the amused expression on his face.

  ‘I’ve never met a woman who ate as much as you do,’ he said, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms. ‘Where do you put it all? Or perhaps I know.’

  Roberta looked at him sharply, but his face was bland. So this was what he was up to, was it? A cat and mouse game with him as the predatory cat, and herself in the role of frightened mouse.

  He hadn’t relegated the events of the previous day to some dusty, cold storage unit at the back of his mind, as she had naïvely supposed.

  After all, hadn’t he told her fiercely that she had whetted his appetite? He was biding his time, circling her like a waiting bird of prey, rising to what he saw as the challenge of getting her into bed, for his own personal amusement.

  Well, it wasn’t going to work.

  She wiped her mouth on her serviette and stood up. ‘I think we ought to be setting off. I’d like to get back as quickly as possible so that I can make sure that Emily’s all right.’

  She stuck her hands into her jacket pockets, clenching them into a tight ball. She had got his measure now. He intended to deploy the full brunt of that formidable charm on her, she was sure of it, but, as he got closer, so she would back away.

  He signalled to the waitress for the bill, and she pointedly ignored the glint in his green eyes as they scanned her body.

  She would be polite with him till the cows came home, she thought, throwing him a very controlled smile and then quickly shifting her eyes away from his. He seemed to have the unnerving ability to read her thoughts, and she wasn’t going to let him.

  Oh, no, as far as she was concerned, this was all-out war, and she would have much more to lose than him if she didn’t win it.

  Why, she thought irritably, couldn’t he have fitted into the stereotype of the paunchy, middle-aged tycoon that she had expected? The very least people could do was live down to your expectations.

  They resumed the journey, with the soft music on the radio providing a soothing backdrop to her thoughts.

  She was inordinately relieved when the car finally pulled up outside the house. She slung open her door and hurried up to the front door, impatiently waiting for him to open it, eager to get out of the claustrophobic confines of his company.

  As he pushed open the door she stepped inside, the expression on her face changing into one of horror as she stared at the mess around her. Empty bottles in the hall, an ashtray crammed with dead
cigarette butts, the smell of smoke still lingering in the air, tainting it with its peculiar, acrid smell.

  ‘What the hell...?’ Grant said from behind her. He stepped in, and then repeated, in a dangerously soft voice, ‘What the hell has been going on here?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ROBERTA didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to see that thunderous rage on his face. She had a pretty shrewd idea of what had taken place in the house, and she suspected that he had as well.

  She opened her mouth to begin a conciliatory little speech, something along the lines of being patient and understanding, but she didn’t get as far as the first syllable. He muttered, ‘Where’s my daughter?’ and she watched worriedly as he strode past her, taking the stairs two by two, his hand impatiently skimming the banister.

  She remained standing where she was. She could already hear the inevitable confrontation happening above her, the sound of Emily’s raised voice, slamming of doors, but she had no part in any of it. It was a family affair and, helpless though she felt, all she could do was stay put and hope that nothing came crashing through the floorboards overhead.

  It wasn’t terribly difficult to recall the rage of which he was capable and, whoever was to blame for the dead cigarette butts and the evidence of drinking, she still felt sorry for Emily. She had a suspicion that his daughter would be tried and convicted without much of a hearing in between.

  It wasn’t, she knew, that Grant didn’t love his daughter. He did. It was simply that he could not channel that love into the right methods of expression.

  It was hard enough trying to communicate with a teenager, but in this instance the lines of communication were so fragile that they frequently faced each other like warring adversaries, neither capable of the sort of reasonable discussion that solved most problems.

  The crashing and slamming had subsided into an ominous silence and Roberta held her breath, waiting. She didn’t have long to wait. Grant reappeared at the top of the staircase, his hand clutching a young boy who looked scared to death. Behind them, there was a girl of about the same age, also visibly quailing. Of Emily there was no sign.

  Grant roughly half dragged, half pulled him down the stairs, while the boy fumbled with his coat, attempting to put it on, which was an impossible manoeuvre.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Roberta asked, running up to them, her eyes anxious. ‘Is this really necessary?’ she asked Grant quietly, hanging on to her calm in the face of all this mayhem.

  His face twisted into a snarl. ‘Keep out of it!’

  So much for the charm, she thought. He was as mad as hell, and making no attempt to conceal it.

  ‘As for you,’ he addressed the unfortunate youth, who was now eyeing the front door with desperate zeal, ‘I don’t want to see you show your face here again. Is that quite clear?’

  The boy nodded rapidly, and the girl, who had been hovering behind, sprinted towards the door, opening it and letting herself out quickly. Poor girl, Roberta thought, she doesn’t know what’s hit her. Grant in a foul temper was much more than merely alarming. He was formidable.

  He slammed the front door behind them, and then turned to face her.

  ‘And you try to tell me that my daughter is capable of reasonable behaviour?’ He was barely articulate in his anger. ‘One night!’ he spluttered. ‘One night, and this is what happens.’ He shot her an expression that made her feel that somehow she was responsible for Emily’s conduct.

  ‘Have you talked to her about it?’ Roberta asked calmly. ‘What did she have to say by way of explanation?’

  ‘And don’t you stand there and question me!’ he roared. ‘You can see for yourself what kind of a state the house is in! I’m going to pack her off to the strictest boarding-school I can find in the country! If she thinks she can waltz through life doing what the hell she wants, with no thought for other people, then she’s got another think coming!’ He glared at her, speechless.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what she said,’ Roberta pointed out reasonably. She turned away and began clearing the ashtrays from the tables, carrying them into the kitchen, while he followed her, his anger radiating in waves from him like a forcefield.

  ‘And I suppose you think that I haven’t handled this properly!’ he thundered from behind her. ‘You don’t have to say anything! It’s written all over that cool little face of yours!’

  Roberta emptied the cigarette ash into the bin, and began stacking the used glasses which were lying all over the kitchen counters into the sink.

  He was deliberately needling her, she realised, trying to provoke a reaction out of her so that he could get his teeth into something and have an excuse for really letting fly. She had no intention of giving him any such excuse. Emotionally, and physically, she might be vulnerable to him, but right now she was very much in control and that was how she intended to stay.

  ‘You could help by bringing those bottles into the kitchen and sticking them into the bin,’ she informed him without looking around.

  He ignored her, not moving from where he was standing by the kitchen counter.

  ‘Look,’ she said with a sigh, ‘getting angry isn’t going to solve anything, is it?’

  ‘Oh?’ he jeered. ‘Let’s just use your method of compassionate understanding, shall we? Let’s just be collected and then try leaving Emily again for another night on her own and see what happens, shall we?’

  Roberta met his stare. ‘That’s an idea,’ she mused, giving it consideration. ‘We might find ourselves pleasantly surprised.’

  He was calmer now. That frightening anger had left him, but she knew that his whiplash in a calm frame of mind could be equally potent.

  ‘I tried with that girl,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘It’s not easy bringing up a daughter on your own.’

  ‘You’re not on your own,’ Roberta pointed out. ‘Your mother lives with you.’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean, so don’t try and pretend that you don’t. Not that you would understand anyway—you have no children of your own. It’s always easy to preach about right and wrong when you’re not personally involved.’

  He watched her while she continued to tidy the kitchen. Teenagers, she thought, really were capable of a great deal of mess. They seemed to operate on the theory of why use one glass when four will do, and why bother to wash up when there’s more clean crockery where the last lot came from?

  Still, it was disturbing to speculate on what had happened. She would give Emily time to calm down from her father’s onslaught, and then she would try and wade her way through the inevitable sullen defensiveness until she arrived at some sort of explanation.

  Maybe he was right, maybe it was easier to be logical when you weren’t personally involved, but that didn’t mean that you didn’t care, and it didn’t mean that the advice you offered was worthless.

  Right now, though, that would have been the last thing that he would have been inclined to hear.

  She remained silent, until he snapped, ‘Well, are you just going to stand there washing dishes, or are you going to say something? You’re partly responsible for Emily’s behaviour while you’re under this roof, don’t forget.’

  ‘That line of argument doesn’t wash with me,’ Roberta said crossly. ‘I’ve had no hand in shaping her moral values. My role here is primarily supervisory.’

  ‘Oh, very convenient, your taking that stance all of a sudden, isn’t it?’ He crossed over to where she was standing and leaned indolently against the counter, watching her with a cynical expression. ‘You weren’t backward about lecturing to me about what I was doing wrong with Emily when you first arrived, though, were you? Oh, no. For someone whose role here is solely supervisory, you made your opinions quite clear from the word go, didn’t you?’

  ‘You’re her father,’ Roberta informed him bluntly. ‘You’re responsible for how she turns out. She takes her cue from you.’

  ‘There you go again.’ He glared at her. ‘Miss Know-it-all of the
Year.’

  ‘I’m merely stating the obvious.’

  ‘It’s no wonder that man left you high and dry,’ he muttered by way of response. ‘You probably bossed the life out of him with your “I know what’s best” attitude.’

  Roberta turned off the tap and slowly faced him. ‘That’s below the belt,’ she said, controlling her anger with difficulty.

  He had the grace to flush, his eyes shifting away from hers.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, sticking his hands into his pockets. ‘It was. I apologise. But what do you expect when you hoard your secrets like a little squirrel hoarding its stash of nuts?’

  Roberta looked at him, wondering how she could ever have found his charm and humour so irresistible. Right now, she felt like thumping him with the nearest available object. Preferably one that was very hard and would have a very lasting effect.

  How had the conversation come round to this subject, anyway? One minute he had been shouting his head off about Emily, the next he had managed to drag her personal life into it, as though it had some part in his fury.

  ‘I didn’t realise,’ she said, meeting his eyes and holding them with her own, ‘that I was being paid to give you the story of my life.’

  He looked at her oddly and looked away.

  ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘well, you see if you can talk to her. You’re a woman, you try.’ He walked off towards the door, throwing over his shoulder before he left, ‘You know so damned much, you have a go.’

  He slammed the kitchen door behind him, and Roberta was left feeling as though she didn’t quite know what the hell had taken place between them just then.

  She shrugged her shoulders and told herself that it really didn’t matter. In a lot of ways, he was a mystery, one that she would not unravel, but in one very important aspect he was just a man, a man who operated on a love them and leave them level, and that was something that she should make sure never to forget.

  She finished clearing away the debris, and then made her way upstairs, wondering what sort of state she would find Emily in.