Savage Atonement

by Penny Jordan

  ‘Get in the car,’ he told her grimly. He made no attempt to touch her, and Laurel didn’t know if it was because he feared if he did he might strike her or because the thought of touching her now was abhorrent to him.

  She had barely scrambled inelegantly in when he slammed the door behind her and stormed round to the driver’s side. He got in without a word and switched on the engine. The car jolted forward, but had barely gone more than ten yards when he brought it to an abrupt halt. She half expected him to tell her to get out and walk, but instead he leaned towards her, and just for a moment he was Chas. She shrank back, hating the cynical, knowing look in his eyes as he said in a low voice,

  ‘Oh no, Laurel, you’re quite safe. I don’t make love in cars, and even if I did.…’ His eyes roamed her untidy appearance comprehensively, telling her that desire was the last thing he was likely to feel for her, especially sufficient to overrule his scruples about making love in cars.

  ‘I merely wish to fasten this,’ he told her, flicking up the metal tag of the seat-belt and pulling it across her. For a moment she felt the warmth of his hand against her breast. Her heart leapt into her throat and a fierce heat engulfed her. Unlike Oliver, she recognised in shame, she would have been more than delighted to make love here and now. She found the knowledge both shocking and exciting.

  ‘The mood I’m in right now isn’t conducive to leisurely driving,’ Oliver continued bitingly, ‘so in order that I won’t have the destruction of your body on my conscience as well as.…

  ‘Irrational of me, isn’t it?’ he agreed with self-derision, ‘but you see, Laurel, I had a rather special reason for hoping that your chrysalis would remain intact for just a little while longer. Obviously I was hoping for too much. Still, all is not lost. You have returned, and I have work to do… that is, if you have any energy left for work!’

  * * *

  And work they did! Oliver had prepared copious notes that he wanted her to type, and Laurel, who had barely done more than snatch a few brief hours’ sleep, had a pounding headache by lunchtime. Oliver was still working on the opening chapters of his book; the main character was shaping well, and still elusively familiar. Did he intend to use her in this book, Laurel wondered, or another? Tension crackled in the atmosphere as they worked, Oliver pacing the room as he dictated, impatient and crackling with a fierce energy she had never seen before, as though a special kind of anger fuelled his thoughts.

  ‘That’s enough for today,’ he told her at lunchtime. ‘I suggest you spend this afternoon sleeping off last night.’

  Because of the way he had said it, exhausted though she was Laurel refused to give in to her tiredness and go to bed. Instead she changed into her bikini, and was pleased to note that her body was beginning to tan. Although she still felt selfconscious in the tiny scraps of silk she was nowhere near as uncomfortable as she had been, and picking up her robe, she headed for the pool.

  It wasn’t until she reached the sheltered paved area that she realised that Oliver was already there, swimming powerfully towards her, so that it was impossible for her to leave without him being aware of it.

  He looked up at her as he hauled himself out of the water.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were here.’ Her voice sounded stilted and strained. It was a physical effort for her to drag her eyes away from his torso, tanned and water-sleek, drops of moisture clinging to the whorls of hair on his chest.

  ‘Disappointed to find that I am? Don’t worry, I shan’t stop you daydreaming about Chas, if that’s what you had in mind.’ He leaned forward, reaching for a towel, tall and overpowering, exuding a maleness that turned her knees to jelly, and she longed to deny his accusations, but she knew that he would’t believe her. Tears stung her eyes and she turned away, stumbling into one of the sun-loungers.

  Oliver swore as he reached for her, swinging her off her feet as he grasped her upper arms, her eyes on a level with the pulse beating in the dark column of his throat. A terrible longing to reach out and touch him consumed her, as heat licked through her veins. She made a half-inarticulate murmur, which he obviously misintepreted.

  ‘It’s all right, Laurel,’ he told her with a savagery that matched his name. ‘I’m not going to touch you.’

  I know, she wanted to cry, but I want you to… desperately!

  When he had released her she lay down on the lounger, rolling on to her stomach and closing her eyes, trying to feign a relaxed pose but in reality tensely aware of every movement of the indolently male body next to her.

  From beneath her lashes she watched Oliver smearing cream on his shoulders, and her tongue moved moistly over her dry lips as she followed the lines of his body, trembling with the intensity of her desire to touch him.

  She had never in her wildest imagining believed it was possible to feel this depth of desire; this hunger that gnawed and burned; this need to know every inch of another’s body, so strong and compulsive that it was physically painful subduing it.

  ‘What about you?’

  Her eyes flickered open. He was lying on a towel watching her. ‘Your skin, Laurel, or don’t you mind burning?’

  ‘I’ve put some on already,’ she managed to murmur.

  ‘Then do my back for me, will you?’ he asked her, tossing her the bottle and rolling over on to his side.

  For a moment she contemplated refusing, but what if he should fuess why? Dry-mouthed, she uncapped the lotion and poured some into her palm, slowly spreading it on to his skin, her movements hesitant and uncertain, but as the shape and feel of his flesh became imprinted on her palms her shyness dissolved in the wonder of touching him. Her fingertips moved feather-light across his back, touching, learning.

  Engrossed in her task, she wasn’t aware of how still Oliver had gone until she reached the narrow curve of his waist, and then his tension communicated itself to her. Startled, she hesitated, her voice uncertain as she asked, ‘Is something wrong?’

  He swivelled round to stare at her with eyes almost black with derision, ‘Oh, for God’s sake Laurel, he rasped. ‘Save those sort of games for Chas if you must, but don’t use them on me—I don’t like being teased. I’ll say this,’ he added brutally, ‘either he’s a damned good teacher or you’re a quick learner. That was almost good enough to be professional!’

  And before she could speak he stood up and dived cleanly into the water, doing a vigorous crawl for several lengths, while Laurel watched mutely from the poolside, wondering what she had done to make him so angry.

  She was just preparing their evening meal when he walked into the kitchen and announced that he didn’t want anything.

  ‘I’m going into Arles,’ he told her without adding any explanation. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back. Don’t wait up for me,’ he added sardonically.

  Alone, she went up to her room and tried to convince herself that love, without warmth and encouragement, was something that must surely die. Her eye was caught by her notebook, and she read through it, smiling wryly, as she read what she had written. How naïve she had been then! Actually thinking she was motivated only by revenge! The articles she had brought upstairs were there too, and she started to read through them, gaining a new insight into the man she loved as she did so. There was compassion, a deep compassion, and caring too, and tears blurred her eyes to think that there was so little of it to spare for her. They had got off on the wrong foot and seemed destined to stay that way. Oliver always seemed to be making misjudgments of her—odd in such a shrewd man, almost as though where she was concerned he wasn’t completely unbiased in his thinking.

  She had just washed her hair and finished drying it when she heard the Ferrari returning. It was almost eleven o’clock. She heard Oliver unlocking the car and walking to the door. Her bedroom overlooked it, and she peeped out, frowning as she saw him searching through his pockets, obviously looking for his key.

  As though he sensed her presence he glanced up, and even though she moved back from the window he had seen her.<
br />
  ‘Come down and let me in, Laurel,’ he commanded. ‘I can’t find my key.’

  She had stripped to her bra and briefs to wash her hair, and snatched up the first thing that came to hand—a candy-striped nightshirt which had been amongst the things he had bought her, quickly pulling it on and buttoning it as she hurried downstairs.

  The first thing Laurel noticed about him as she opened the door was that he had been drinking. She could smell it on his breath.

  ‘You’re quite safe,’ he told her sardonically, catching her expression. ‘I’m not drunk. My sorrows are doused rather than drowned.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve got any,’ Laurel retorted, as he followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Why? Aren’t I allowed human failings Laurel?’

  His voice was bitter, and she didn’t know him in this strange mood.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘It wouldn’t take long.…’

  ‘Oh yes, it would,’ he contradicted throatily. ‘I have a hunger that couldn’t be quickly appeased, Laurel.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Oh, for God’s sake stop looking at me like the wide-eyed innocent we both know you aren’t any longer, and go back to bed, before I say something we’ll both regret!’

  Laurel was torn between staying and going. In the end, after one last uncertain glance at the hunched male figure, she fled. She didn’t understand why Oliver had been drinking—perhaps it was something he needed to do to help relieve the tension that built up when he was writing. She did know that he wasn’t drunk, but she feared the leashed brooding violence she sensd simmering below the surface, and had no wish to be the one to set a tinder to it, however inadvertently.

  She was just getting into bed when she heard Oliver come upstairs and go into the bathroom. There was a sound of cupboards being opened and closed then he opened the door and called out, ‘Laurel, have you any aspirin?’

  She had a pack in her handbag, and fumbled for them in the darkness, stumbling on to the landing. Oliver was standing framed in the light from the bathroom. He had removed his shirt, his jeans moulded to the muscled length of his legs. A prickly awareness stirred the hairs on the back of her neck and in a daze Laurel handed him the tablets. Their fingers touched. Oliver swore shocking her with his vehemence.

  ‘For God’s sake, Laurel,’ he muttered thickly. ‘If it was experience you wanted, why the hell didn’t you come to me?

  And then his mouth was closing over hers, hotly, druggingly, while his fingers moved impatiently against the buttons of her nightshirt, pushing it aside to reveal the fragile bones of her shoulders.

  If she had thought she had experienced desire before, it was nothing compared with the torrent of feeling that raced through her now. The sensuous play of Oliver’s fingers against her skin unlocked a door she had never guessed existed. She clung to him while his mouth burned against hers, clinging to him when he released her.

  In the darkness it seemed to her that there was pain in his eyes as he looked at her, and then he said simply, ‘I knew this afternoon I couldn’t stay here with you tonight and not do this,’ and then she was back in his arms, and he was carrying her to his bedroom—his bed, and she simply didn’t care what she might be betraying to him in the feverish way she clung to his arms.

  His hands on her body felt so right, she couldn’t imagine how she could ever not have wanted them. They stroked a pathway along her collarbone and feathered down her spine, while she scattered feverish kisses against his throat.

  When he tugged away her nightshirt she sighed with pleasure to feel the heat of his skin grazing the fullness of her breasts.

  He raised himself slightly away from her, studying her body in the shadowy moonlight, one hand resting possessively on her thigh, the lazy movement of his thumb against the sensitive skin making her shiver with pleasure as she reached up towards him.

  ‘Ask me again if I’m hungry, Laurel,’ he murmured throatily. ‘Or shall I simply show you?’

  She felt his lips touch the pulse throbbing in her neck and then move downwards, exploring the delicacy of her skin. Nerves quivered in shocked pleasure at the intimacy of his touch, the sheer sensuality of his lovemaking as he explored and aroused every inch of her trembling body.

  She cried out wildly with pleasure when his tongue touched the aroused peaks of her breasts, arching beneath him in complete abandonment in the desire he was invoking.

  And he wanted her too. His jeans were discarded along with her nightshirt, the hesitant brush of her fingertips against his body bringing forth a muttered imprecation, evidence of his arousal apparent as he pulled her against him and her body responded joyously to the silken meshing of their skins.

  Laurel wanted to kiss and touch him as he had done her, and she pressed her lips to his skin, feeling the tension in his muscles, and thinking she had done something wrong, until he groaned and moved convulsively tilting her head back so that he could plunder her mouth, his heart thudding heavily against her.

  It was only when he parted her thighs and covered her with his body that fear suddenly intruded; a black stark fear that had its roots in the past, stiffening her body, making her cry out in fear and panic, until she realised that it wasn’t Bill Trenchard who held her but Oliver, and then she sobbed his name, shivering with the remembered horror of the past, while he held and watched her, smoothing the tangled hair off her face.

  ‘You thought I was Trenchard, didn’t you?’ he asked her huskily. ‘Dear God, Laurel, what are you trying to do to me? What about Chas? Did you think he w.…?’

  ‘You’re wrong about Chas,’ she told him. ‘It wasn’t like you think at all. We quarrelled on the way home and he left me. I had to walk, and I fell asleep. I… we didn’t make love!’

  She started to cry, slowly and helplessly, knowing that he wouldn’t believe her, but incredibly it seemed that he did.

  ‘I would never have let him make love to me,’ she told him through her tears. ‘I had no idea… .’

  ‘Which is why I spent half last night looking for you… which is right now why you should be in your own bed and not mine. One day, Laurel,’ he told her, cupping her face, ‘you’re going to meet a man who’s going to make you forget Trenchard—forget everything but your own need for him.’

  She longed to say that she already had, but of course, Oliver didn’t want her love. She wouldn’t be here in his bed now if he hadn’t been drinking, she was sure of that.

  ‘What would you say now, if I asked you to stay with me?’ he murmured, watching her.

  Her heart gave a frightened bound. If he did could she resist him? She already knew the answer.

  ‘I.…’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he told her wryly, ‘I’m not going to. You felt something, though, tonight, Laurel, you can’t deny that, and I suppose that in itself is a breakthrough.’

  In his experiment, he meant, of course. Misery and despair washed over her. She was playing with fire and she was going to get burned—badly. She loved Oliver, but he didn’t love her, and she would be a fool to herself if she stayed with him even a minute longer, feeling as vulnerable as she did right now.

  ‘I think I’d better go,’ she told him woodenly.

  ‘I.…’

  ‘You were carried away in the heat of the moment. I know,’ he told her dryly. ‘Perhaps now you’ll realise why I was so concerned when I thought you were with young Chas. It was plain that he wanted to go to bed with you from the moment he set eyes on you.’

  Again Laurel thought she saw a flash of pain in his eyes, although it was gone too quickly for her to be sure.

  As she moved away from him a shaft of moonlight touched his body, and she was flooded with a weakening desire to touch him, to beg him to make love to her, but if she did that he would know how she felt, and that was something she could not bear.

  ‘For God’s sake go if you’re going, Laurel,’ he told her hardily, hurting her with his indifference. ‘I want some sleep even if you don
’t.’

  And then he startled her by reaching for her nightshirt and buttoning her into it as though she were a child, although there was nothing childish about the way she felt as he anointed each breast with a lingering kiss before fastening the top few buttons.

  Sleep! It had never been farther out of reach, because no matter how exhausted her body might be it couldn’t forget the warm intimacy of Oliver’s or stop longing for a return to the intimacy they had shared. Mental images of the masculine perfection of his body tormented her every time she closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THERE was no sign of Oliver when Laurel went downstairs. He came in just as she was waiting for the percolater—through the back door, his hair still damp, and his shirt open at the throat. For a moment she could only stare at him, remembering how last night… and then a rich tide of colour swept over her.

  Oliver smiled a little quizzically, pulling up a chair and sitting down helping himself to some breakfast.

  Of course her naïveté must seem amusing to him; what had to her been a momentous, world-shattering occurrence had to him simply been an experiment, a probe into her reactions.

  She turned away abruptly and busied herself with the coffee, hoping that he hadn’t seen how affected she was by him.

  She heard the scrape of his chair as it was pushed back and then he was next to her, turning her to face him.

  ‘Laurel, what happened last night is nothing you have to be ashamed of. I know how you must feel… at least I can guess how you must feel,’ he corrected, ‘especially in view of what I said to you yesterday morning. I couldn’t have been more wrong about that, could I?’ he probed with a gentleness that made her want to cry. ‘I was a brute to you, and should have seen that.…’

  ‘I was suffering from exhaustion because of my long walk and not.…’

  ‘… because you had spent the night in Chas’s arms. What I’d like to know is what that young fool thought he was about, implying that you were with him.’ His face hardened and for a moment Laurel barely recognised him. ‘When I think what might have happened to you.…!’