Savage Obsession

by Diana Hamilton

  'Are you sure you won't need me?' He was doing his best to be kind, manufacturing an errand as an excuse for her outing, despite the hours she'd wasted today.

  He was a dear, and not to know that she would much prefer to work flat out. Hard work was the only thing that would take her mind off her misery. But she couldn't throw his kindness back in his face, especially when he beamed, 'I've told you. I've got to get a few facts straight before I can go any further, and I prefer to do my own research. And I'm partial to fish, straight from the boats. See if you can get a couple of good sole.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  She did her best to look pleased, more than grateful that he hadn't bawled her out for disap­pearing for hours, staying away with the stranger who had invaded the privacy of his home, a stranger he obviously disliked as intensely as Charles dis­liked him. And, just for one weak moment, she was tempted to confide in her kindly employer.

  It would be a relief to talk about the pain and misery she'd endured, the insecurity of knowing that her husband no longer pretended to want her in any meaningful way, the dreadful shock she'd sustained when Zanna had come back on the scene. She'd never talked about it to anyone, never hinted—even to her parents—that anything was wrong.

  Sighing, she pushed the weak moment aside. Who was she to burden others with her misery? William was only her employer, after all. If she told him the whole truth she might only manage to em­barrass him. No one wanted to be burdened with another's troubles. And she had their future working relationship to think of.

  * * *

  Beth parked her car on the quai Gambetta and made for the fish stalls, the pale lemon skirts of her light cotton dress swinging around her long, slender legs, the wind from the sea tossing her glossy dark hair, setting it flying around her face.

  There was a spring in her step this morning, a half-excited, half-fearful hope in her heart, a hope she had tried to kill—and, having failed, was de­termined to act on.

  She bought the fish William wanted, two large sole fresh from the boats, and hurried back to the car, oblivious to the bustle of locals and the British tourists who were buying the famous Boulogne mussels and oysters to take home on the ferry. At any other time she would have lingered, enjoying the sounds, sights and smells, used the holiday William had given her to explore the ancient town which Henry VIII of England had once captured and where Napoleon had spent three years pre­paring to invade in his turn.

  But, even though she half feared she was going on a fool's errand, she had to see Charles. In answer to William's question he had given the name of his hotel and, before she steeled herself to face the ir­retrievable breakdown of her marriage to the only man she had ever loved, ever could love, she had to see him one last time.

  Trying to steady her racing heartbeats, to warn herself that nothing might come of this one last meeting, she found a space on a multi-storey car park, rummaged in her handbag for her small hand-mirror and checked her reflection. Her huge green eyes were over-bright, feverish, too big for her small, pointed face. And her full, wide mouth still looked swollen from the passionate imprint of Charles's sensual onslaught. And there were lines of strain, too, deepening the hollows beneath her cheekbones, painting dark smudges beneath her eyes.

  Pushing the mirror back into her bag, she snapped it shut decisively and left the car. Bewailing the havoc that was the result of a sleepless night wasn't going to achieve a thing.

  She had lain awake, tormented by memories. For months, ever since the accident, he hadn't come near her, hadn't so much as touched her hand, carefully avoiding any physical contact, spending more and more time away from home.

  Yet yesterday afternoon he had acted as if he was starving for her; his hoarse cry of male exultation as he had driven her to the wild heights of ecstatic fulfilment and then exploded catacyclismically inside the throbbing sheath of her body had surely been more than the climax of pleasure gained from having a final sexual fling with a wife he no longer cared about.

  Could he have made love to her with such tu­multuous passion, shown such tenderness, if she no longer meant anything to him? It was a question she couldn't answer, but was determined to ask.

  If there was any hope, no matter how slight, for their marriage, then she was going to put up a fight to keep him, she vowed staunchly as she walked back down the hill from the old town, through the maze of little streets with their tempting shops and restaurants.

  Praying he hadn't already left for home—last evening he'd clearly been pushed for time, as she'd noted when witnessing his impatient glance at his watch—she hurried on, her high heels tapping on the cobbles. If there was the remotest chance of saving their marriage then, clearly, he must re­cognise Harry as his son, see him regularly, make provision for his future.

  Despite the loss of her own child, Beth was sure she could come to terms with such a state of af­fairs—if only she could be sure that his obsession with the boy's mother was a thing of the past!

  'Well, well—look who's here!' The husky drawl was unmistakable and Beth's feet froze to the spot while cold apprehension crawled all over her body. She didn't believe this was happening, she simply didn't believe it!

  She turned her head slowly towards the pavement tables outside the restaurant she'd been so blithely passing and her heart wrenched painfully inside her as she met Zanna's scornfully derisive eyes.

  Her mouth dry as dust, she could only stand and stare, transfixed, as Zanna's lush scarlet lips parted in a parody of a smile.

  'Charles said you were taking a working holiday—a euphemism, if ever I heard one.' She put her coffee-cup back on its saucer and leaned back in her chair, her red-gold hair curling on to the delicately tanned shoulders the low-cut white sundress she was wearing left bare. And her voice was brittle now. 'But we all know why you took to your heels, don't we? Your prim little mind couldn't face the fact of Harry's existence—you couldn't even bear to discuss the ramifications, could you? Not that your pigheaded cowardice makes a scrap of difference; what's happened has happened and even if your delicate sensibilities are offended you can't alter a thing.'

  'I have no intention of trying.' Beth had found her voice now but it emerged sounding rusty, as if she hadn't used it in a long, long time.

  Charles had sought her out for one purpose only—to discuss the divorce. And even then he hadn't been able to be parted from the woman he had loved for years, the woman who had only re­cently come back into his life. She wondered hys­terically what the other woman would say if she told her how those discussions had never taken place and exactly how they'd been side-tracked!

  But she held her tongue, biting back the bitter words because, although they would show Charles in a bad light, they would also reveal her own total vulnerability to him—the way she had behaved like a sex-starved wanton while he, as she had originally and logically believed, had only been putting his mark of possession on her for one last time—his sexual arousal down to the fact that he had disap­proved of his titular wife living under the same roof as her employer.

  And at that moment she hated everyone—Charles, Zanna, but most of all herself—and she clipped out emotionally, 'You can have what you want. It won't be long until your bastard can legit­imately take the name of Savage!'

  The moment the scathing words were out, she could have bitten her tongue off. None of this mess was the child's fault, and from what she had seen of him during that dreadful weekend he was utterly charming, a well adjusted, confident little boy who resembled Charles so strongly that every time she had looked at him her heart had contracted, breaking up a little more.

  'I'm sorry,' she murmured huskily, appalled at herself, but Zanna obviously took no offence, the thickness of her skin unbelievable as she shrugged.

  'You're quite right, of course. That's what I plan and that's what is going to happen.' And then, amazingly, she patted the vacant seat beside her. 'Sit down. Charles shouldn't be long. He took Harry to watch the ferry docking and we arranged to
meet here.' She inspected the face of her tiny jewelled watch. 'He should be here any moment; we're flying south this afternoon.'

  South to the sun, to the exotic playgrounds of France, where the two of them could enjoy a ro­mantic idyll, making up for the wasted years when they had been apart, their tiny son completing their bonding. She might have known that he wouldn't install his mistress and son at South Park until after the divorce, when he could take her there as his wife.

  'No. Thanks,' Beth muttered, feeling ill. Did Zanna really expect her to sit and wait for the husband who so patently wanted her out of his life? Did she really expect the three of them to sit together, drinking coffee, making polite and mean­ingless conversation? That sort of thing might happen in the sophisticated circles Zanna moved in, but to Beth the whole idea was incredible.

  'As you like.' The other woman gave a careless shrug. 'Run and hide from the facts again—it doesn't bother me. I always knew you weren't woman enough to hold him.' She gave a vicious little smile. 'Charles is strong meat. I never did think you could cope with a man that sexually dangerous, that overpowering.'

  Wordlessly, Beth stumbled away, tears of hu­miliation blinding her. Like every young girl around, just emerging into womanhood, she had been irresistibly drawn to the dark potency of Charles Savage's intimidating masculinity. But, unlike the others, she hadn't grown out of it, found a man more easily tamed.

  She, blind fool that she was, had believed she could handle the forceful and dangerous mascu­linity she sensed in him, could tame that dark presence with the strength of her love. And despite all that had happened, everything she knew, she had clung to that hopeless belief right up until half an hour ago. Fool!

  At last, subsiding breathlessly into her car, she hauled herself together. Zanna knew, and had always known, that only a woman as powerfully seductive, as wilful as she was, could carve a place for herself in Charles's heart—carve it and keep it.

  And now she, Beth, knew it too. And, at last, finally and with no looking back, accepted it. She would show the world that she was capable of living without him, could handle her life and her future—no matter how empty it seemed.

  The rest of her life began right here and, no matter how tough the exercise, she would never look back.

  Her hand quite steady, her features set, she reached for the ignition…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The August heat was stifling, thunder brewing om­inously. Beth pushed her overlong fringe out of her eyes and tried to concentrate on transcribing her shorthand. She would have to make the effort to drive into Boulogne to get her hair restyled; the normally sleek and elegant cut was growing out of hand.

  But what did it matter? she thought tiredly, closing her eyes, her shoulders slumping. Her brave intention to get on with her life, never looking back over her shoulder, had suffered a fatal set-back. How could she avoid staring back into the past when, two days ago, she had discovered she was pregnant?

  Two days of remembering that afternoon, over six weeks ago, when her child had been conceived. Two whole days of alternating between the in­credulous joy of knowing that her body harboured a brand-new life, a precious life, created with the man she loved, that the fear that the accident had impaired her ability to conceive had been un­founded, and the consequent despair that came of knowing that it was all too late.

  Charles already had a child, a son he had wel­comed and acknowledged, the woman he had never stopped loving with a passion that amounted to ob­session ready and willing to take her place as his second wife.

  Which left her, Beth, where?

  In an extremely difficult situation.

  Her parents would be returning from that world cruise by the middle of next month, and, although they would be saddened by the news of her im­pending divorce, they would be understanding and supportive. But she could hardly stay at her parents' home, waiting for the birth of her child, while, a scant quarter of a mile away, Charles, his new wife and their son were settling in at South Park. It would put them all in an impossible situation. A situation she couldn't face.

  'Are you all right?'

  Beth recognised the rough concern in William's voice and opened her eyes, straightening up over her work, feeling guilty.

  'I'm fine. Just hot.' She gave him a tight smile. Lately, she had kept her smiles to a sparing minimum, tried to make their relationship more formal. Charles had seen what she had not—that William was more interested in her as a woman than as a secretary.

  But then, she excused herself wearily, her love for Charles had been so staunch for so many years that it had blinkered her to the rest of the male sex.

  'We're in for a storm.' He came to stand behind her, putting his hands lightly on her shoulders, and she felt her whole body tighten with rejection.

  He was a highly intelligent man, a considerate and kindly employer, and he would make some woman an excellent husband. But she wasn't that woman. Her feminine intuition had picked up enough vibes to warn her that he thought she might be. He was an honourable man, not the type to want an affair. And, recently, her eyes had been opened, had seen what Charles had so quickly as­similated. It was all there, if one had the wits to look for it—the way his face lit up when she walked into a room, the way his eyes lingered on her lips, the way he touched her when there was no need to do so. As now.

  She shifted abruptly, uneasily, in her seat, and his hands fell away immediately, but he told her quickly, 'Leave that. There's no rush to get it off. My publishers don't set deadlines.'

  He moved to the other side of the room, and even though her back was to him she could hear him fiddling with the papers on his desk and her eyes stayed glued to the pages of shorthand waiting to be transcribed into neatly typed manuscript form.

  His current book was finished, apart from the few pages to be typed, and when that was done her job here would be over and she would be free to go, and, although she had found security here, of a kind, she couldn't wait. She had her future life to sort out, not to mention that of her unborn child, and she needed to be alone, completely unpressured, before she could decide how best she could support herself and her baby.

  'It's far too hot to work,' he mumbled from the other side of the room and then, more briskly, 'Be­sides, it's almost time for dinner. Mariette left cold beef and salad. Why don't you go and freshen up?'

  And as she got to her feet, about to cry off dinner, plead a headache as an excuse for a really early night, he forestalled her. 'Your temporary job here is coming to an end. I'd like to discuss that with you over dinner.'

  'Of course.' She covered the typewriter and walked to the door, her clothes sticking to her in the sultry heat. He was, first and foremost, her em­ployer. If he wanted to discuss the termination of her job then she had no right to refuse him.

  A generous employer, too, she reflected as, ten minutes later, she stood gratefully beneath a cool shower in her own tiny bathroom. She had saved most of the excellent salary he'd paid her, and she knew how to live frugally—which she would do when she was back in England and looking for work which would enable her to provide for both herself and her baby.

  It wouldn't be easy, she thought as she patted herself dry and pulled a loose-fitting light cotton dress over her scanty underwear, fastening the buttons that went all the way down the front. Although it was designed to be belted, she opted to leave the filmy garment loose. It was too close and sultry to be constricted by anything remotely tight.

  William probably wanted her to stay on until the end of the week, for although the remainder of the typing would only take another few hours there was always the chance that, having read through it, he might decide to make a few minor alterations. And that would suit her fine, she thought as she walked back into the main house, astonished to find that William had already set the table and brought the cold food from the fridge.

  Not a huge or daunting task, she knew, and her soft mouth curved in an amused smile. But William was old-fashioned, and he liked to make hi
mself appear incompetent where anything smacking of domesticity was concerned. Mariette was paid to put his meals in front of him and, on the rare oc­casion when she left early, that task fell to Beth.

  'You look beautifully cool.' The appreciation in his voice as he looked at her from the other side of the room made Beth curse herself for her un­guarded smile. Over the past few weeks, when her eyes had been opened at last to his growing awareness of her as a woman, she had been careful to keep everything formal, on a very businesslike footing indeed.

  Not that she was apprehensive about it; she wasn't. He wouldn't make a move, say anything out of place, without encouragement. She was quite sure he wasn't that type of man. And encour­agement she most definitely wasn't going to give. So she said tonelessly, 'Appearances can be de­ceptive. I just wish the storm would break to clear the air. I'm practically melting.'

  'I've got just the cure for that!' William rubbed his hands, looking pleased with himself. 'Cham­pagne on ice. Just the ticket, wouldn't you say?'

  Without waiting for a reply, he filled two flutes, the liquid foaming, spilling on to the carpet, then handed one to Beth, and stood awkwardly, licking the drops from his fingers.

  She sat down on the sofa, setting the glass aside. She didn't want the drink; alcohol would turn the niggling ache at the back of her eyes into a full­blown headache. Besides, she was only here with him now to discuss the termination of her part-time employment. So she asked him, 'When are you ex­pecting me to leave? Would the end of the week suit you?'