She was trying to banish these memories from her mind when Rafe opened the door to the master bedroom, and her heart was thudding painfully against her breastbone as he drew her inside. This was the room she had shared with Rafe. It was in this room that she had known her happiest as well as her most heartbreaking moments.
Jo pulled herself together with an effort to cast a critical glance about the spacious room with its walk-through dressing-room and adjoining bathroom.
It was not quite as she had remembered. The solid oak furniture had not changed, but she was pleasantly surprised to discover that the unsightly floral curtains across the sash windows had been replaced with a pale blue chintz to match the drapes on the four-poster bed. The serviceable olive-green carpet had also been removed, and in its place was a plush creamy-coloured carpet which had been laid wall to wall.
Stan entered the bedroom seconds later with a large suitcase in each hand and a smaller suitcase tucked under each arm. He deposited them at the foot of the bed and glanced enquiringly at Jo when he straightened. 'Shall I leave the suitcases here, madam?'
She nodded and smiled stiffly. 'Thank you, Stan.'
Rafe straightened from his lounging position against the wall the moment Stan left the room. 'I have a few things to see to before it's dark, so I'll leave you to get yourself settled before dinner,' he said, exchanging his dark jacket and grey silk tie for a serviceable fleece-lined jacket. Jo felt her rigid control slipping the moment the door closed behind Rafe, and she was suddenly shaking so much that she knew she had to sit down before she fell down. This was going to be worse than she had imagined, Jo was thinking as she lowered herself on to the stool in front of the dressing-table. There were so many bitter memories lurking in this room she had once shared with Rafe, and she cringed inwardly at the thought of what was still to come. Oh, God! What am I going to do? How am I going to live through this?
She stared almost blindly at the suitcases Stan had stashed so neatly at the foot of the bed, and then she leapt purposefully to her feet.
Unpack! That's what you're going to do! Unpack your suitcases and keep yourself busy!
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS dark outside. The sun had set more than an hour ago and the stars sparkled like clusters of diamonds against the velvet of the night sky.
Jo had forgotten how bright the night stars could be in the Karoo. She had also forgotten that the temperature at night could drop to freezing in the winter, and she shivered as she let the curtain fall back into place. Her silk dress might have been warm enough for Cape Town's wet winter weather, but it was totally inadequate for the biting cold of the Karoo nights, and she slipped her hands round to her back to resume her battle with that stubborn zip.
She had unpacked her suitcases and had stashed them away on a high shelf in the dressing-room. What she wanted now was a hot bath and a change of clothing, but her patience had become frayed to the point where she seriously considered the possibility of tearing the dress off her body if the zip did not come unstuck soon.
Moments later Jo pulled open the dressing-table drawer, and she was actually reaching inside for the scissors when there was a light tap on the bedroom door.
'Come in!' she called, her voice sharp with irritation, and an elderly black woman in a pink overall entered the room.
Elsie was not a stranger to Jo. She had worked for Averil Andersen for many years, preparing the meals and supervising the rest of the household staff according to Averil's instructions. Circumstances had previously prevented Jo from getting close to this woman. Was she a friend? Or ought Jo to see her as an enemy?
'May I bring you something to drink before dinner, madam?' Elsie enquired, her round face revealing nothing except the polite concern which one would reserve for strangers.
'I won't have anything now, thank you, Elsie, but I would appreciate it if you could help me with this zip.'
It was desperation which had driven Jo to make that request. She could not tell whether Elsie would consider it beneath her station to deliver this small personal service, but Elsie stepped forward amiably, her white starched apron crackling as she moved.
'I'll do that, Elsie,' a deep male voice halted the woman, and she retreated hastily, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
Jo had spun round at the sound of Rafe's voice, and her heart was beating out a nervous tattoo against her ribs as she met his dark gaze.
For a big man Rafe had a surprisingly light step. That was something else she had forgotten, Jo realised as she watched him take off his fleece-lined jacket and drape it across the back of the armchair which had been re-upholstered in a cream and blue striped material to match the rest of the decor in the room.
'Turn around,' he instructed, stepping towards her, and Jo turned her back on him in silence. She thought she had prepared herself for the touch of his hands, but she tensed when his fingers brushed against her skin, and that knot of anxiety at the pit of her stomach received a painful wrench. If his light, impersonal touch still had the ability to send her pulse-rate into a frenzy, then how was she going to deal with the situation when Rafe actually made love to her?
'Thank you,' she muttered when she felt the zip give way beneath his fingers. She started to move away, but Rafe caught her by the shoulders and held her in such a way that she could not fail to feel the disturbing warmth of his body against her back.
'Jo...' His voice was a low, throaty murmur just above her left ear that sent shivers of apprehension up and down her spine. She sensed that he was about to say something of importance, and she waited, hardly daring to breathe, but then she could almost feel him change his mind. His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulders, then he released her and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the bathroom. 'I need a shower before dinner, so don't be too long in the bath.'
Jo did not risk a glance in Rafe's direction as she fled through the dressing-room into the bathroom. She wished she could have known what he wanted to say, but later, when she thought about it, she was convinced that there was nothing he could have said to alter the distasteful circumstances of this unwanted second marriage.
Rafe was at least considerate enough not to invade her privacy while she was taking a bath. He remained in the bedroom until she emerged, fully clothed, from the dressing-room, and only then did he rise from his lounging position in the armchair to go into the bathroom. His expression had been dark and brooding, and she felt a stab of uneasiness as she seated herself at the dressing-table to tend to her hair and her make-up.
Jo had never been afraid of Rafe before, but she was afraid of him now. Perhaps it would be more to the point to say that she feared for herself. There was a hardness in him which had not been there before; a calculated savagery which she sensed rather than saw, and she wondered what could have happened in the three years since their divorce to bring about this change in him.
The deep amber of her long-sleeved woollen dress matched that hint of fire that flashed in her hair as she brushed it beneath the light hanging from the ceiling above the dressing-table. She coiled her hair into a fresh chignon, and she was about to fasten a tear-shaped pearl on a gold chain about her neck when Rafe emerged from the dressing-room with a brown suede jacket hooked on the finger of one hand. He had changed into beige corded trousers, and a fresh white shirt which he had left unbuttoned at his strong, sun-browned throat so that she could not fail to catch a glimpse of the dark hair curling against his chest.
'Let me help you,' he offered, flinging his jacket across the foot of the bed and coming up behind her when the remembered texture of his hair-roughened skin made her fingers tingle and fumble with the catch on the chain.
'I can manage,' she protested, but Rafe took the chain from her, and once again the light touch of those strong fingers against her skin sent a little shiver racing through her that affected the normal rhythm of her pulse.
'Who gave you this pendant?' he asked when he had secured the latch.
'It wa
s a gift from a friend on my last birthday.'
'This friend of yours—male or female?' His eyes held hers compellingly in the mirror while he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked slightly on his heels.
'Male,' she answered him.
Rafe's mouth tightened into a thin, ominous line. 'Was he your lover?'
'No, he was not my lover.' She sounded cool, but Rafe's nearness and the familiar smell of his aftershave was beginning to have a disturbing and heated effect on her senses. 'My friend was a paraplegic and we used to enjoy each other's company.'
Rafe's eyes narrowed reflectively. 'Why do you speak of him in the past tense?'
'He committed suicide three months ago.'
'I'm sorry,' he said, turning away from her to shrug himself into his suede jacket, but Jo had glimpsed a flicker of compassion in his eyes, and her heart lifted a fraction at the thought that he might not have become quite as hard as she had imagined.
'I was sorry too,' she admitted quietly, the pain of that loss still very real to her as she slipped her feet into soft brown pumps and rose from the stool. 'I'm ready for dinner, if you are.'
Jo preceded Rafe from the bedroom and they walked down the dimly lit passage without speaking. In the spacious entrance hall they turned right into the dining-room where the long oval table had been set for two.
Against the snow-white tablecloth the polished silverware sparkled beneath the lights hanging low over the table, and against the inner wall stood the mirrored mahogany dresser which had been in the Andersen family for generations. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, and Jo refreshed her memory by allowing her glance to travel briefly over the intricately carved panels. Rafe opened the bottle of champagne which had been waiting on ice for their arrival, and shortly afterwards Elsie brought in the soup tureen. Elsie had always served at the table—she had not trusted anyone else with this task—and Jo had to admit that she did it well.
The meal Elsie had prepared for them that evening was not elaborate, but it was wholesome. The creamy tomato soup was followed by tender lamb, fresh vegetables and a crispy salad. After the sponge-cake dessert they retired to the lounge across the hall, and Elsie served them their coffee in front of the stone fireplace where a log fire was crackling in the grate.
Everything in the lounge was still the same, but the position of the padded floral armchairs, the long sofa and the occasional tables had been altered in such a way that one could enjoy the warmth of the fire no matter where one happened to be sitting in the room.
Jo wondered how Averil had managed to overcome her aversion to altering anything in the house. Or was Rafe also responsible for these changes?
'Tell me about your paraplegic friend,' Rafe prompted long after they had had their coffee, and Jo was glad of this opportunity to drag her thoughts away for a moment from the painful and humiliating memories evoked by her surroundings.
'Tony Ribeiro.' The handsome features of a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man flashed before her mind's eye as she said his name, but she was unaware of the sad, slightly reminiscent smile curving her wide, generous mouth. 'It was a motorcycle accident in his teens that put Tony in a wheelchair.'
'How old was he when he died?'
'Twenty-seven.' Jo stared into the flames dancing in the grate, but she was remembering that morning three months ago when she had come off night duty at the hospital and some sixth sense had made her call in at Tony's flat to find him slumped in his chair with a bullet wound in his temple. 'He was a talented young man,' she explained, trying to shut out the horror of that memory. 'At twenty-two he had started a small business of his own, making guitars for collectors and artists who wanted something special, and Tony not only made guitars, he also played them... beautifully.'
'Why did he commit suicide?'
She looked at Rafe for the first time since he had started to question her about Tony. She looked at that long, healthy, muscular body lounging in the armchair facing hers, and she wondered if anyone who was not physically disabled would ever know what really went on in the mind of someone who had lost the use of two or more limbs.
'I don't know why he committed suicide. I don't think anyone will ever really know what had prompted him to take his own life,' she answered Rafe quietly. 'Tony had his moments of deep depression, but he was basically a well-adjusted young man. That's what I always believed, but there must have been something I missed, something I must have overlooked, and I still have nightmares about the fact that I might have been too stupidly blind to see when he was reaching out to me for help.'
'You can't go through life blaming yourself for his death,' Rafe expounded harshly. 'You weren't this fellow's keeper.'
'No, I wasn't his keeper,' she agreed readily, 'but I was his friend, and the person he confided in the most.'
Rafe's dark, narrowed gaze held hers for interminable seconds before he got up to select one of the straight-stemmed pipes on the stand that stood on the mantelshelf.
'Would you mind if I smoked?' he asked unexpectedly, gesturing with the pipe in his hand.
'I don't mind, but smoking is bad for your health.'
He unzipped the tobacco pouch which had lain on the mantelshelf beside the pipe stand, and dipped the bowl of his pipe into it. 'You told me that once before.'
'I'm surprised you remembered,' she countered stiffly, her glance drawn to those big, long-fingered hands with the neatly clipped nails.
Rafe had strong hands, hands which she knew could bend a piece of metal into whatever shape he required, but Jo could recall only their gentleness whenever he had touched her. The memory of shared intimacies skipped unbidden through her mind, quickening her pulses, and her nerves flared uncomfortably when Rafe struck a match and held the flame over the bowl of his pipe.
'There are many things I remember about you,' he said, his dark, brooding gaze shifting over her while he lit his pipe.
Jo had an unnerving feeling that his thoughts had wandered along the same path as her own when their glances met and held, but he did not elaborate on his statement, and neither did she want him to. She could feel her cheeks stinging when she finally wrenched her gaze from his, and she prayed that he would blame her heightened colour on the warmth of the fire. He flicked the match into the grate and returned to his chair.
The pleasant aroma of Rafe's particular brand of pipe tobacco drifted towards her, and she realised suddenly that she had never been alone with him like this before. His mother had always been there, but Jo had had no argument with that. She could accept Averil Andersen's disapproving presence in the evenings, but not when Averil had openly joined forces with Lorin Scheepers to make Jo's life a misery, and Lorin had stayed to dinner on so many occasions that to had begun to think she might as well move in permanently.
Their bedroom had eventually been the only place where Jo could be truly alone with her husband, but it was during those infrequent moments of togetherness that the visible strain of her existence had finally led to Rafe accusing her of not making an effort to adapt. That had hurt, and it had hurt even more when her silence had been taken as a sign of guilt.
It had been wrong of her to remain silent. She should have voiced her grievances instead of bottling them up inside for fear of causing friction in the home, but wisdom had come too late, and there was nothing she could do now to alter the course of past events.
'More champagne?' Rafe got up to pour the remaining contents of the bottle into their glasses. 'I believe we have cause for a celebration, don't you?'
Jo sat rigidly on the edge of her chair, staring down at the glass he placed in her hand, and she realised that her mental stamina had waned along with the fizz in the champagne. 'I don't feel very much like celebrating.'
Rafe's eyebrows lifted, in sardonic amusement above mocking eyes as he lowered his tall, muscular frame into his chair. 'Don't you think that the assured future of Harris Construction is something worth drinking a toast to?'
'At this very moment I wish Harris
Construction never existed!' The words came out in a hiss through her teeth, and she was suddenly so cold that she put down her glass and rose from her chair to stand in front of the fire.
The long hand of the wall-clock above the mantelshelf was moving towards the half-hour. It was almost nine-thirty, and the tensions of the day were beginning to take their toll on Jo. Her control was slipping, and her calmness was deserting her to leave her panic-stricken at the knowledge that she had tied herself to Rafe to give him the child he had demanded in exchange for the financial security of her family. This was going to be such a heartless union that it terrified her just to think of it.
'I can't go through with this, Rafe.' Her hands gripped the mantelshelf, her knuckles whitening as she spoke. 'I know what I agreed to, but I—I can't.'
He could not have missed that pleading note in her voice, but he chose to ignore it. 'You can and you will!'
'It's all very well for you to insist, but you didn't have to—' The angry words jelled on her lips when she turned and saw the relentless hardening of his square jaw.
'I didn't have to... what? Rafe demanded softly, dangerously.
'You didn't have to—to sell your body to save your family from the financial gallows,' she managed to complete her sentence in a choked voice.
'It was your choice,' he reminded her with a bluntness that made her wince inwardly.
'But I didn't have much of a choice, did I?'
'No, admittedly you didn't,' he agreed, sucking on his pipe with an enviable calmness and puffing out a cloud of aromatic smoke while his narrowed gaze lingered for a moment on the agitated rise and fall of her breasts. 'We were married before, Joceline. We're not total strangers to each other, so why should the thought of sharing my bed and having my child repel you?'
Jo shuddered inwardly and turned once again to face the warmth of the crackling fire in the grate. 'It's all so cold-blooded and calculated.'
Valley of the Devil Page 4
