by Penny Jordan
‘I don’t want to fight with you, Oliver,’ she told him quietly now. ‘You must know that you have no possible reason to feel… to think that I want you to be Henry…’
‘Haven’t I?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘Why not? After all, you were prepared to marry him. Wanted to marry him… Wanted to so much in fact that you were prepared to let his mother browbeat and bully you and—’
‘That’s not true,’ Lisa interrupted him swiftly. ‘Look, Oliver, please,’ she protested, spreading her hands in a gesture of emotive pleading for his temperance and understanding. ‘Please… I can’t talk. I don’t want us to argue… not now, when everything has been so… perfect, so special and—’
‘So perfect and special in fact that you don’t want to continue it,’ Oliver cut across her bitterly.
‘You’ve given me the most wonderful Christmas I’ve ever had,’ she whispered huskily, ‘in so many different ways, in all the best of ways. Please don’t spoil that for me… for us… now. I need time, though, Oliver; we both need time. It’s just…’
‘Just what?’ he demanded, his eyes still ominously watchful and hard. ‘Just that you’re still not quite sure… that a part of you still thinks that perhaps Henry—?’
‘No. Never,’ Lisa insisted fiercely, adding more emotionally, ‘That’s a horrible thing to say. Do you really think that if I had any doubts about… about wanting you, that I would have—?’
‘I didn’t say that you don’t prefer me in bed,’ Oliver told her curtly, correctly guessing what she had been about to say, ‘but the implication was there none the less—in the very words you used to describe what you wanted from marriage the first time we discussed it, the fact that you’ve been so reluctant to accept what’s happening between us… the fact that you don’t seem to want me to meet your parents.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ she protested. ‘My feelings… my doubts,’ she amended when he snorted derisively over her use of the word ‘feelings’, ‘they… they don’t have anything to do with you. It isn’t because I don’t… because I don’t care; in fact—’
‘Oh, no,’ Oliver told her cynically, not allowing her to finish what she was saying.
‘It’s me… not you,’ Lisa told him. ‘I’ve always been so cautious, so… so sensible… This… this falling in love with you—well, it’s just so out of character for me and I’m afraid.’
‘You’re afraid of what?’ he demanded.
The wind had picked up and was flattening his T-shirt against his body, but, unlike her, he seemed impervious to the cold and Lisa had to resist the temptation to creep closer to him and beg him to wrap his arms protectively around her to hold her and warm her.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered, lifting her eyes to meet his as she added, ‘I’m just afraid.’
How could she tell him without adding to his anger that a good part of what she feared was that he might fall out of love with her as quickly as he had fallen in love with her? He was quite obviously in no mood to understand her vulnerability and fear and she knew that he would take her comment as an indication that she did not fully trust him, an excuse or a refusal to commit herself to him completely.
‘Please don’t let’s quarrel,’ she repeated, reaching out her hand to touch his arm. His skin felt warm, the muscles taut beneath her touch, and the sensation of his flesh beneath her own even in this lightest of touches overwhelmed her with such an intense wave of desire that she had to bite down hard on her bottom lip to prevent herself crying out her need to him.
They were still standing outside, and through the windows she could see the tree that he had decorated for her, the magic he had created for her.
‘Oh, Oliver,’ she whispered shakily.
‘Let’s go inside,’ he responded gruffly. ‘You’re getting cold and I’m… You’re right,’ he added rawly. ‘We shouldn’t be spoiling what little time we’ve got left.’
‘It is still Christmas, isn’t it?’ Lisa asked him semi-pleadingly as he turned to open the door for her.
‘Yes, it’s still Christmas,’ he agreed, but there was a look in his eyes that made her heart ache and warned her that Christmas could not be made to last for ever—like their love?
Was that why she doubted it—him? Because it seemed too perfect, too wonderful… too precious to be real?
They said their private goodbyes very early in the morning in the bedroom they had shared for the last four nights, and for Lisa the desolation which swept over her at the thought that for the next two nights to come she would not be sleeping within the protection of his arms, next to the warmth and intimacy of his body, only confirmed what in her heart of hearts she already knew.
It was already too late for her to protest that it was too soon for them to fall in love, too late to cling to the sensible guidelines that she had laid down for herself to live her life by: the sensible, cautious, pain-free guidelines which in reality had been submerged and obliterated days ago—from the first time that Oliver had kissed her, if she was honest—and there were tears in her eyes as she clung to him and kissed him.
What was she doing? she asked herself helplessly. What did guidelines, common sense, caution or even potential future heartache matter when they had this, when they had one another; when by simply opening her mouth and speaking honestly and from her heart she could tell Oliver what she was feeling and that she had changed her mind, that the last thing she wanted was to be apart from him?
‘Oliver…’ she began huskily.
But he shook his head and placed his fingertips over her mouth and told her softly, ‘It’s all right—I know. And I do understand. You’re quite right—we do need time apart to think things through clearly. I’ve been guilty of trying to bully you, to coerce you into committing yourself to me too soon. Love—real love—doesn’t disappear or vanish when two people aren’t physically together; if anything, it strengthens and grows.
‘I didn’t mean to put pressure on you, Lisa, to rush you. We both have lives, commitments, career responsibilities to deal with. The weather has given us a special opportunity to be together, to discover one another, but the snow, like Christmas, can’t last for ever.
‘If I’d managed to get you to come to New York with me as I wanted, I probably wouldn’t have got a stroke of work done,’ he told her wryly. ‘And a successful conclusion to these negotiations is vitally important for the future of the business—not just for me personally but for everyone else who is involved in it as well. Oh, and by the way, don’t worry about not taking your car now; I’ll make arrangements to have it picked up and returned to you later. I don’t want you driving with the roads like this.’
Oliver had already told her about a large American corporation’s desire to buy out part of his business, leaving him free to concentrate on the aspects of it he preferred and giving him the option to work from home.
‘If Piers goes ahead and marries Emma, as he’s planning, he’s going to need the security of knowing he has a good financial future ahead of him. Naturally the Americans want to get the business as cheaply as they can.’ He had started to frown slightly, and Lisa guessed that his thoughts were not so much on her and their relationship but on the heavy responsibility that lay ahead of him.
Her throat ached with pain; she desperately wanted to reach out to him and be taken in his arms, to tell him that she had made a mistake, that she didn’t want to let him go even for a few short days. But how could she now after what he had said?
Suddenly, illuminatingly, she realised that what she had feared was not loving him but losing him. The space that she had told herself she needed—they both needed—had simply been a trick her brain had played on her, a coping mechanism to help her deal with the pain of being without his love.
Quietly she bowed her head. ‘Thank you,’ Lisa whispered to him as tears blurred her eyes.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you want… a book or…?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘You’ve already bought
me all these magazines,’ she reminded Oliver huskily, indicating the pile of glossies that he had insisted on buying for her when they’d reached the station and which he was still carrying for her, together with her case, as he walked her along the platform to where the train was waiting.
She had tried to protest when he had insisted on buying her a first-class ticket but he had refused to listen, shaking his head and telling her, ‘That damned independence of yours. Can’t you at least let me do something for you, even if it’s only to ensure that you travel home in some degree of comfort?’
She had, of course, given in then. How could she not have done so? How could she have refused not just his generosity but, she sensed, from the expression in his eyes at least, his desire to protect and cherish her as well?
‘Make sure you have something to eat,’ he urged her as they reached the train. ‘It will be a long journey and…’
And she wouldn’t be spending it eating, Lisa thought as he went on talking. Nor would she be doing anything more than flipping through the expensive magazines he had bought her. No, what she would be doing would be trying to hold back the tears and wishing that she were with him, thinking about him, reliving every single moment they had spent together…
A family—mother, father, three small children—paused to turn round and hug the grandparents; the smallest of them, a fair-haired little boy, clung to his grandmother, telling her, ‘I don’t want to go, Nana… Why can’t you come home with us…?’
‘I have to stay here and look after Grandpa,’ his grandmother told him, but Lisa could hear the emotion in her voice and see the tears she was trying not to let him see.
Why did loving someone always seem to have to cause so much pain?
‘Oh, to be his age and young enough to show what you’re feeling,’ Oliver murmured under his breath.
‘It wouldn’t make any difference if I did beg you to come home with me,’ Lisa pointed out, trying to sound light-hearted but horribly aware that he must be able to hear the emotion in her voice. ‘You’d still have to go to New York. We’d still have to be apart…’
‘Yes, but I… At least I’d know that you want me.’
It was too much. What was the point in being sensible and listening to the voice of caution when all she really wanted to do was to be with him, to be held in his arms, to tell him that she loved and wanted him and that all she wanted—all she would ever want or need—was to be loved by him?
He was looking at her… watching… waiting almost.
‘Oliver…’ She wanted so desperately to tell him how she felt, to hear him tell her that he understood her vulnerability and that he understood all the things she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say, but the guard was already starting to close the carriage doors, advancing towards them, asking her frowningly, ‘Are you travelling, miss, because if so…?’
‘Yes… Yes…’
‘You’d better get on,’ Oliver advised her.
She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to leave him. Lisa could feel herself starting to panic, wanting to cling to him, wanting him to hold her… reassure her, but he was already starting to move away from her, lifting her case onto the train for her, bending his head to kiss her fiercely but far, far too briefly.
She had no alternative. She had to go.
Numbly Lisa stepped up into the train. The guard slammed the door. She let down the window but the train was already starting to move.
‘Oliver. Oliver, I love you…’
Had he heard her, or had the train already moved too far away? She could still see him… watching her… just.
Oliver waited until the train had completely disappeared before turning to leave, even though Lisa had long since gone from view. If only he didn’t have these damned negotiations to conclude in New York. He wanted to be with Lisa, wanted to find a way to convince her.
Of what…? That she loved him?
Lisa pushed open the door of her flat and removed the pile of mail which had accumulated behind it. Despite the central heating, the flat felt cold and empty, but then that was perhaps because she felt cold and empty, Lisa recognised wryly—cold without Oliver’s warmth beside her and empty without him… his love.
In her sitting room the invitation she had received from her friend Alison before Christmas to her annual New Year’s Eve party was still propped up on the mantelpiece, reminding her that she would have to ring Alison and cancel her acceptance. The telephone started to ring, breaking into the silence. Her heart thumping, she picked up the receiver.
‘You got home safely, then.’
‘Oliver.’
Suddenly she was smiling. Suddenly the world was a warmer, brighter, happier place.
‘Lisa, I’ve been thinking about what you said about us not rushing into things… about taking our time…’
Something about the sombreness in his voice checked the happiness bubbling up inside her, turning the warmth at hearing his voice to icy foreboding.
‘Oliver…’
Lisa wanted to tell him how much she was missing him, how much she loved him, but suddenly she wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted to hear.
‘Look, Lisa, I’ve got to go. They’ve just made the last call for my flight…’ The phone line went dead.
Silently she replaced the receiver. Had it really only been this morning that he had held her in his arms and told her how much he loved her? Suddenly, frighteningly, it was hard to believe that that was true. It seemed like another world, another lifetime, already in the past… over… as ephemeral as the fleeting magic of Christmas itself.
‘No… it’s not true,’ she whispered painfully under her breath. ‘He loves me; he said so.’ But somehow her reassurance lacked conviction.
Even though she had been the one to insist that it was too soon for them to make a public commitment to one another, that they both needed time, she wished passionately now that Oliver had overruled her, that he had confirmed the power and strength of his love for her. How? By refusing to let her leave him?
What was the matter with her? Lisa asked herself impatiently. Could she really be so illogical, saying one thing, wanting another, torn between her emotions and her intelligence, unable to harmonise the two, keeping them in separate compartments in much the same way as Oliver had accused her of doing with sex and marriage?
Had she after all any real right to feel chagrined at the sense of urgency, almost of impatience in his voice as he had ended his brief call? She had, she admitted, during the last few days grown accustomed to being the sole focus of his attention, and now, when it was plain that he had something else on his mind…
She frowned, aware that instead of feeling relief when he had told her that he agreed that they did need time to think things over she had actually felt—still felt—hurt and afraid, abandoned, vulnerably aware that he might be having second thoughts about his feelings for her.
How ironic if he had—especially since she had spent almost the entire journey home dwelling on the intensity of her own feelings and allowing herself to believe…
It would only be a few days before they were together again, she reminded herself firmly. Oliver had promised that he would be back for the New Year and that they would spend it together. There would be plenty of time for them to talk, for her to tell him how much she loved and missed him.
Even so… Sternly she made herself pick up her case and carry it through to her bedroom to unpack. A small, tender smile curled her mouth as she picked up the stocking that she had so carefully packed—the stocking that Oliver had left for her to find on Christmas morning.
There were other sentimental mementoes as well—a small box full of pine needles off the tree, still carrying its rich scent, the baubles that Oliver had removed from it and hung teasingly on her ears one night after dinner, a cracker that they had pulled together… She touched each and every one of them gently.
Through what he had done for her to make her Christmas so special Oliver had
revealed a tender, compassionate, emotional side to his nature that made it impossible for her not to love him, not to respond to the love he had shown her. Had shown her?
Stop it, she warned herself. Stop creating problems that don’t exist. Determinedly, she started to unpack the rest of her things.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS NEW YEAR’S EVE and almost three o’clock in the afternoon, and still Oliver hadn’t rung. Lisa glared at the silent telephone, mentally willing it to ring. She had been awake since six o’clock in the morning and gradually, as the hours had ticked by, her elation and excitement had changed to edgy apprehension.
Where was Oliver? Why hadn’t he been in touch? Was he just going to arrive at her door without any warning so that he could surprise her, instead of telephoning beforehand as she had anticipated?
Nervously she smoothed down the skirt of her dress and just managed to restrain herself from checking her reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time.
She had spent most of her free time the previous day cleaning the flat and shopping for tonight. The lilies she had bought with such excitement and pleasure were now beginning to overpower her slightly with their scent. The champagne waiting in the fridge was surely chilled to perfection; the special meal she had cooked last night now only required reheating. Oliver might be planning to take her out somewhere for dinner, but the last thing she wanted was to have to share him with anyone else.
And even if she had dressed elegantly enough to dine at the most exclusive restaurant in town and her hair was immaculately shiny, her make-up subtly enhancing her features, it was not to win the approval of the public at large that she had taken such pains with her appearance, or donned the sheer, silky stockings, or bought that outrageously expensive and far too frothily impractical new silk underwear. Oh, no!
