Stranger in the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  While he was kissing her, however, Luke was deftly doing a number of other things without Clare being aware of it at first. It was only as she suddenly realised that they were both naked and that Luke's hands were moving in a slow, sensual exploration of her body that she snapped out of her dazed mood.

  'No!' she gasped, pulling away and trying to push his hands down. 'You mustn't!'

  'Don't play games, Charleston girl,' he muttered thickly.

  Clare wasn't playing games. She was filling with panic as she felt his long fingers possessing her body.

  'I can't,' she whispered shakily. 'Luke, please don't!'

  He had cupped her breasts, and a piercing sexual excitement swept through her. It was her first experience of such intense physical feeling and she drew in her breath on a fierce gasp. Luke laughed softly and his fingers teased and incited her response.

  Her breasts were aching, hardening, the smooth white flesh abruptly heating and swelling.

  She began to whisper pleadingly, her voice shaking, but Luke wasn't even listening. She saw his face in the darkness. He looked different suddenly: harder, more masculine, the smile completely gone. He was stroking her breasts and staring and she could hear the sharp, harsh sound of his breathing.

  He looked up at her as she stopped speaking on a painful breath, his eyes glittering in the darkness. Clare forgot everything. She was held in a strange, suspended limbo, drowning in the intent hard stare of his eyes.

  It was then that real fear flared inside her head. The euphoria induced by all' the drink she had consumed went so suddenly that she felt sick, but she was wide awake now, and terrified.

  'I've never…' she began huskily, and was cut short by the bruising, fierce demand of his mouth. He was fondling her thighs, his body moving against her, holding her so that she couldn't escape.

  'No,' she moaned under his mouth.

  'What do you mean, no?' He lifted his head and that charming mouth looked as though it had never worn a smile in its life. His face was deeply flushed and savage. His lips curled back and she saw white teeth clenched together. 'I don't like girls who tease,' he muttered, barely parting his teeth to speak. 'I'm in no mood for games now. You've had your fun, now I want mine.'

  She went into a frenzy of panic, struggling violently, hitting him with flailing hands which had no idea how to cope with his superior strength, clawing down his face as she fought to get away. She felt her nails raking his skin and he swore with a savagery that appalled her.

  'You little bitch!'

  Her scream split the silent flat. His body violently invaded hers and his hand clamped down over her mouth as she went on crying out in wounded protest.

  She went on struggling wildly to escape the pain he was inflicting on her, icy fear making her cold from head to foot, her brain now very clear and stricken with misery, but he ignored her muffled cries, the hands pushing at his broad, naked shoulders, the damp palms sliding on his skin.

  When he finally lay still beside her, Clare was trembling, her ears still aching with the sound of his pleasure, sickness cramping her stomach.

  She felt him turn over on his side without a word and a few moments later she realised he was asleep, breathing heavily, one arm flung out above his dark head.

  She waited tensely, like a frightened little animal, her brain reeling under the impact of what had happened to her. It had all been a mad, surrealist nightmare—the party, the strangers, the drink to which she was so unaccustomed, the feeling of being alone in strange territory.

  In the dark room she became aware of the faint odour of whisky hanging around him. He had been drinking, too, although she had never noticed because she had been half drunk herself.

  She ran her cold, trembling hands over her face. She had to get away while he was asleep. She couldn't face him in the morning; she winced at the thought of how he would look at her, what he would say. She didn't want anyone looking at her. She felt unclean and sick.

  Luke had thought she was used to being picked up like that. She realised now just what sort of girl he had thought she was, shame burning in her face. Through the darkness she stared at the wide, bare shoulders, the long smooth spine.

  He had brought her here with him, believing her to be available, imagining that she knew precisely what was in his mind. The wild emotions she had been feeling had never entered his head. He had picked up a girl for the night, and that was all there was to it on his side.

  Her breathless dream of a sudden, fateful love had all been moonshine. The sickness in her grew, eating at her. How could she have been so stupid? Her own innocence had betrayed her into his hands and she was torn between hating herself and hating him.

  He had gone through a charade of love for her that night, whispering sweet words, kissing her with a pretence of tenderness that mocked her now. She had blindly believed he felt as she did—that he was as suddenly, blissfully involved with her as she had been with him from that first moment. She had been cheated by her own innocence and folly into believing that a sordid little one-night stand was the coming of true love.

  He used me, she thought, staring at his hard, handsome profile. She slid off the bed as slowly and carefully as she could and began to dress with hands that shook.

  When at last she was fully dressed again she looked down at his sleeping face. She would remember him; all her life she would remember him with hatred.

  Quietly she tiptoed to the door. As she opened it, it creaked, and the little sound disturbed him. He stirred, the black head moving restlessly on the pillow, and rolled over, his body turning in a graceful movement that held her eyes. His arm fell heavily across the bed, his hand moving as though he searched for something.

  Clare held her breath, trembling. The last thing she wanted was to have Luke wake up now and look at her. Now that she knew precisely what he thought of her she couldn't wait to get out of here.

  Oh, God, she thought, if I'd only realised last night what it was he wanted! I don't even know his full name, she realised, with a sick qualm. Luke was all she would remember him as, and she knew that name would always make her want to throw up.

  She had believed herself to be in love with a nameless stranger who had only wanted a girl in his bed for one night of enjoyment. It would be branded inside her for the rest of her life, and there was nothing she could do to remove that shame now.

  Luke lay still again, his breathing loud in the quiet room. Clare softly tiptoed out and crept like a mouse down the dark corridor. She went down in the lift and the block of flats was totally silent now. The uproar of the night before had evaporated. In the foyer lay a tattered trail of bright red tinsel. She averted her eyes from it, wincing.

  She shivered as she stepped out into the cold morning. She was given one piece of luck, anyway. A cruising taxi passed a moment later and she hailed it. The weary driver gave her a sardonic grin. 'Happy New Year, darling. Good party?'

  Clare looked at him with a white face and darkened eyes and he stared back at her in surprise. 'Here, you all right, miss?'

  She pulled herself together with a struggle. A stiff smile mocked her bruised mouth, but it convinced the driver. 'I'm a bit…'

  He didn't let her finish. 'Morning after the night before, eh? I know the feeling.'

  Do you? she wondered. I doubt it. Only a woman who's made a complete fool of herself could come anywhere near guessing how I feel.

  He dropped her outside her lodgings, brushing aside the tip she offered. 'My pleasure, darling. I'm going home now myself. It's been a busy night.'

  Clare laughed wildly and he gave her another puzzled, curious look. She went slowly into the house. It was very quiet. Everyone was flat out this morning after a hectic night. She let herself into her room and sat down on the bed, dropping her head into her hands. I'm a stupid fool, she thought savagely. In the cold, quiet first light of that new year she faced the fact that she would never be the same again. In one night she had had lessons she would never forget They had been given
by a man wanting only a brief, sensual pleasure with a girl whose name he didn't even know and for whom he felt nothing but a passing lust.

  She had brought it all about herself, though. Her own behaviour at that party had made him imagine that she knew what he wanted and was offering him exactly that.

  She felt a bitter anger rising inside her. He had been a dream come true, and now that dream lay in a thousand icy fragments around her feet.

  In future she would guard herself against the sort of romantic folly which had led her into that bedroom and that man's possessing arms. She would never again let herself be trapped by her own heart.

  I'll never feel anything again, she thought savagely. From now on I'll keep a damned great wall round myself. I'll never let myself in for this sort of pain again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sunlight danced and spun in a blinding brilliance across the blue water. White sails moved languidly like distant butterflies. A plane flew low on landing course for Nice airport and Clare watched it lazily, one arm flung in a graceful curve over her head. Her nostrils picked up the delicious scent of coffee from the low, white house behind her, and closer than that, the heavy sweet scent of roses and bougainvillea, their smooth, fleshy petals closely interwoven as they crowded along the terraced levels of the garden.

  Two olive trees clung to a corner of the house, their twisted shapes tormented by winter winds into beseeching gestures, the dark shade they gave during sunlight hours moving on the grass as the wind blew softly from the sea.

  'Coffee, darling!' Macey said behind her, startling her.

  Clare dropped her huge green sunglasses to peer at him. 'Did you have to go to Brazil to pick the beans?'

  'No sarcasm at this time of the morning,' he said, his mouth twitching at one corner. As he bent to place the tray on the table, his thick dark hair fell forwards, obscuring the strong profile. Clare leaned over to brush it back and Macey gave her a hard grin.

  He poured the coffee and sat down beside her, stretching his long bare legs with a contented sigh. 'This is the life! Why don't we stay here for good?'

  'We can't afford to,' Clare pointed out. 'Well, I can't—you may be able to.'

  The sun struck over his skin, giving it a smooth golden texture like oiled silk, as he reached for his cup. He sipped his coffee, staring at the sky, and Clare watched him, thinking that his lean, fit body performed every action with a fluid grace that caught and held the eye. Macey looked good whatever he was doing, whatever he was wearing.

  He abruptly turned his head and caught her staring. A brief, sardonic glint showed in his eyes, then he smiled. 'Day-dreaming?'

  'I feel disinclined to do anything,' she admitted, lying back with her arms curved over her head.

  Macey ran his glance down the rounded curve of her body, gave her a wicked leer. 'You don't have to do a thing, darling. Just lie there and let me watch you. That ravishing figure will keep me occupied all day.'

  'Flattery?' Her green eyes held amusement.

  'It never comes amiss,' he agreed, his eyes mocking. 'And you love it.'

  'How true,' Clare admitted, laughing. 'Even when there's motive in your madness.'

  'Is my play boring you to tears?' He said it smilingly, but she saw his eyes shoot sideways, very quickly, at the script she held open on her lap.

  'I haven't finished it yet,' she told him firmly. 'Drink your coffee and shut up.'

  'Yes, ma'am,' he muttered, picking up his cup.

  It was good, she thought, her eyes flicking back to the page. She had felt the prickle on the back of her neck which told her it was good. Macey was a clever writer. His plays had an open feeling to them, a freedom which left much of the responsibility on the actors, the lines two-edged and ambiguous, so that all the meaning lay in the acting. All the best playwrights had been actors, Clare told herself. It took an actor to be aware of both the pitfalls and the possibilities of a play, to capitalise on their own professional skills so that they could construct well-shaped vehicles for fellow actors.

  The levels of meaning in Macey's plays were multitude. This one could be read purely as entertainment, a commercial vehicle which she saw was bound to be highly popular, but he had fed other things into it, using that gift of ambiguity to enrich and deepen the text.

  Although she knew him so well, she realised how much of Macey was still veiled to her. He was not an easy personality. Outwardly, he was an extrovert: charming, lively, good company. His plays revealed a very different man.

  She had known him now for seven years. They had met while she was in her final year at drama school. Macey had been acting with a northern repertory group. An old student of the drama school, he had called in to see the end-of-term performance in which Clare had had a starring role, and he had buttonholed her afterwards to tell her that she had missed a vital chance during her performance.

  Clare had prickled at the sight of him. Macey's long, lean body and dark hair resurrected memories which still had the power to make her hair bristle on the back of her neck.

  Macey took no notice of her cold manner, beginning to talk at once, and his interested, serious face had impressed her enough for her to listen with growing respect.

  'They didn't laugh when you threw that book because they couldn't see your face. You didn't turn towards them as you threw it, and they weren't sure if it was meant to be funny or not.'

  'But the lines!' she had protested, and he had shaken his head.

  'Lines can mean anything. It all depends how they're said. You fluffed the lines, took them too fast, and with your head turned away half the meaning was lost. They needed to see your face.'

  She had considered that with a frown, nodding. When they had been introduced she had been told he had just had his first play performed, and that had impressed her. When Macey asked her to have supper with him, she had accepted. As they walked out of the school he grinned at her and said: 'It will have to be a scratch supper, I'm afraid. I'm skint.'

  Clare had laughed. She had laughed even more as she found herself having egg and chips in a cheap cafe under one of London's bridges. They had argued vehemently across the plastic-topped table until an old man in a filthy raincoat leaned across to give them his own viewpoint. Cheerfully, Macey had included him in the conversation, and then the proprietor had come from behind his counter to lean on a chair and join in the discussion.

  It had been a noisy, exciting evening, and very typical of Macey, whose interest in people was wide and all-embracing, whose warmth was as much a lure as a fire on a cold night and who had no barriers which excluded anyone from the circle of his friendship.

  His kindness extended beyond the ordinary generosity to friends. He would give his last penny to a stranger who needed it. He loved to talk shop, as ready to learn as he was to instruct, his profession fascinating him as much as it fascinated her. She was soon very aware that Macey was far cleverer than she would ever be—but he wore his intellect lightly, disguising it from most people under the charm of his quick smile.

  In the years since they met, Macey had risen like a shooting star, largely because he wrote plays which were riveting theatre and easily produced. Two of them had been made into highly successful films. The thin young man she had met that first night had become an internationally known celebrity, but he had not changed an inch towards her.

  During the first year of their friendship Macey had several times tried to deepen their easy relationship into something very different, and Clare had firmly made it clear she could not accept anything but friendship from him.

  Macey was too clever not to realise she meant it. Gradually he had ceased to show her anything but casual warmth. It had been a relief to her that he accepted the situation. When Macey fell in love with someone else, Clare was ready to listen and advise him. When he rapidly fell out of love again she was ready to console and commiserate.

  The pattern of their relationship had set during that first year. When Clare left drama school, Macey got her a job with
the repertory company for which he was working. She had been a very junior stage manager, understudying some parts, walking on in others. It proved eventful for her when she spent the entire performance of one play lying in a deck chair wearing a tiny bikini. The audience loved it, but more importantly, a London agent had turned up to see it.

  He had been visiting his aged, and irritable, mother, and had brought her to the theatre in a desperate act of boredom.

  Harry Stein had brought his mother backstage after-wards. A tiny, white-haired lady of eighty, she had sat in the only chair in the cramped little dressing-room, sucking her teeth while she stared disapprovingly at the girls sharing Clare's space and chattering as they removed their make-up.

  Harry Stein had ignored them, concentrating on Clare. 'You've got something,' he told her. 'I can find work for you if you come to London.'

  She had been over the moon. Macey had frowned, later, saying slowly: 'Watch him, darling. He may not be interested in your acting ability.' A flick of his blue eyes had expanded that drily as he looked her over. 'You have quite a bit of ability in other directions, especially when you're only wearing a bikini.'

  Clare had given him a brief, hard smile. 'Don't worry, I'm not as gullible as all that.'

  Macey's eyes had watched her shrewdly, intently. 'No,' he agreed on a flat note.'

  She had grown up rapidly, painfully, during one night years ago, and the lessons she had learnt then had been burnt into her brain. The searing stamp had not diminished over the years. Clare carried it like a scar which could not be seen, a deep intense resistance to being used by anyone, fending off emotional involvement fiercely.

  She knew she could cope with Harry Stein. He had, in fact, proved no better and no worse than Macey had predicted. Harry had attempted for a while to talk her into bed, promising her the moon, and Clare had stubbornly, coldly resisted. Harry hadn't held it against her. Shrugging wryly, he had accepted her refusals at last and gone ahead to get her work wherever he could. She had come to be quite fond of Harry in the end. He had built her career with great care and energy. Her resistance to him had impressed him, and not much impressed Harry.