'No! You're lying!' he accused harshly, the dim bedside light accentuating the angles and planes of a face which had become distorted with a savage anger, and he flung her hand aside as if he could not bear her touch. 'Lies… all lies… can't trust a woman.'
'Oh, Chad!' His name spilled from her lips on a sigh of despair, and she turned from him, her eyes brimming with tears.
'Don't go away again…don't go away…need you…'
Megan could not be sure whether Chad was speaking to her, or referring to his mother, but his wildly thrashing movements made her turn back hastily and, blinking at the stinging moisture in her eyes, she slipped her hand into his once again and gripped it firmly.
'I'm not going away,' she assured him with a calmness which belied the emotional storm raging inside her. 'Trust me. I'll stay for as long as you need me, and that's a promise.'
Chad subjected, her to a long, hard stare, clearly doubting her, but it was, perhaps, the sincerity in her voice which finally filtered through to his subconscious mind. He relaxed visibly against the pillows and, sighing deeply, closed his eyes and slipped once again into that fretful world of oblivion.
Megan tried to swallow down that aching lump in her throat, but she failed, and neither could she control her tears. They spilled from her lashes and rolled freely down her cheeks while she assimilated the facts. Drawing from his own experiences during his childhood, and influenced, perhaps, by his disillusioned, embittered father, Chad's need for someone he could love and trust had been buried deep over the years for fear of being hurt.
He had revealed something to Megan in his state of delirium which he would not willingly have revealed to anyone else, and she must never let him guess that he had bared his soul to her in this way. She had been an intruder on his private thoughts and feelings, but it had, at least, afforded her that glimmer of understanding which she had sought for so long.
She loved him…oh, how she loved him…but he must never suspect. Never! His conscious mind had no need of her love, and she could not bear the thought of being held up for ridicule.
Megan's tears finally dried on her cheeks and, freeing her hand from Chad's, she left the room to fill the basin with fresh, tepid water to sponge him down.
The remainder of that night passed slowly and uneventfully and, as dawn approached, Chad became considerably calmer. He appeared to be sleeping naturally for the first time, and Megan leaned back in the armchair, closing her tired eyes, but she did not sleep. Her mind remained alert to the slightest sound, and it was about six-thirty that morning when she heard the front door open.
Byron entered the room moments later. He drew aside the curtains at the window to admit the early morning light and, casting a brief, searching glance at Megan's hollow-eyed face, he approached the bed to brush the back of his fingers across Chad's forehead and lean, unshaven cheeks.
'The crisis is over,' he said, smiling at Megan across Chad's inert figure on the bed.
The crisis might be over for Chad, but it had only just begun for Megan. She would have to learn to cope with her feelings, and she was not so sure that she was going to succeed.
'I'll stay with him for a while,' offered Byron, and his glance was critical as it flicked over Megan. 'I suggest you go to your bungalow and get into bed before you drop with fatigue.'
'Oh, no, I can't! I can't leave—'
'What Chad needs now is rest,' he interrupted her with a gleam of teasing mockery in his eyes, 'and he can do that without someone having to hold his hand.'
Megan realised with an embarrassing start that she was still holding Chad's warm, rough hand in her own, and she released it with a self-conscious smile.
'I guess you're right,' she agreed, blushing profusely as she rose to her feet and switched off the bedside light.
Chad's features looked calm and relaxed. The fever had left him and the crisis was over, as Byron had said. There was nothing more she could do for him, and she was suddenly so dreadfully tired that she wondered if she still had enough strength left to walk the short distance from Chad's bungalow to her own.
'I have a message for you.' Megan paused in the doorway, and had to clutch at the frame to steady herself as she turned slowly to face Byron. 'A Mr John Driscoll from the publishing company called yesterday afternoon,' he informed her. 'They want you to be in Johannesburg by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.'
Megan nodded mutely and left, the brightness of the early morning sunlight blinding her momentarily when she stepped outside, and it seemed a tremendous effort to put one foot in front of the other as she walked the short distance to her bungalow.
The knowledge that John Driscoll considered her work good enough to warrant a postponement of their meeting should have elated her, but, oddly enough, she felt nothing at all. It was this lack of feeling that made her realise, for the first time, how exhausted she actually was.
She had difficulty unlocking the door to her bungalow, and there was a strange buzzing noise in her head when she finally entered her bedroom and closed the door behind her.
Everything was still exactly as she had left it two nights ago. Was it only two nights ago that Isaac had hammered on her door to tell her that Chad was ill? Or was it an eternity ago? Megan could not quite remember as she dragged the open suitcase off the bed so that it landed with a thud on the floor. Her bed looked incredibly inviting and, too tired to change out of her clothes, she flung herself on to it and promptly went to sleep.
Megan showered and washed her hair before getting dressed for dinner. This was her last night in the hotel and, after ten hectic and seemingly endless days in Johannesburg, she was more than ready to return to the peace and tranquillity of her home in Louisville.
She was trying to decide what to wear when the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted her. John Driscoll had said he might give her a call before she left, and, tightening the belt of her towelling robe about her waist, she seated herself on the edge of the bed and lifted the receiver to her ear.
'Megan O'Brien speaking.'
'Hello, Megan.'
The voice was deep and masculine, but it was not the voice she had expected to hear, and her heart hammered a little wildly against her ribs.
'This is an unexpected surprise, Chad,' she said, injecting a cool politeness into her voice.
'I'm in Johannesburg on business for a couple of days, and Dorothy told me which hotel you'd be staying at,' he answered her unspoken query. 'Are you perhaps free this evening to have dinner with me?'
Megan fingered the belt of her robe nervously and glanced at the suitcase which lay open on her bed. 'I…think so…yes.'
'You don't sound very sure.'
'I'm leaving tomorrow, and I still have some packing to do,' she explained, 'but I'd like to have dinner with you.'
'Good! I'll be there at seven to pick you up.'
'I'll meet you in the foyer,' she agreed before Chad ended their conversation abruptly.
She replaced the receiver and combed her fingers nervously through her short, damp curls. She was not sure that it had been wise of her to agree so readily to have dinner with Chad. She had not seen him before her departure from Izilwane. She had slept like someone drugged after those long hours of nursing him and, too wary to risk making a trip to Chad's bungalow, she had relied on Byron's information that he was recovering rapidly from his bout of malaria.
She drew a shaky breath and glanced at her wrist watch where it lay on the bedside cupboard beside the telephone. Chad would be arriving at the hotel within less than an hour, and, leaping to her feet, she galvanised herself into action, drying her hair, deciding what she ought to wear, and taking particular care with her makeup. Nervous excitement had quickened the pace of her heart when she finally stood back to survey herself in the full-length mirror.
'Not bad,' she complimented herself. She looked calm and composed despite that well of anxiety at the pit of her stomach, and the rich burgundy of her long-sleeved evening dress added a glowing warmt
h to her features. The fine woollen material clung softly to the gentle curve of her breasts and hips, accentuating her femininity, but Megan was no longer considering her appearance when she walked across the room towards the built-in cupboard with the slatted doors. The night air could be chilly in Johannesburg at that time of the year, and she draped her suede coat about her shoulders before she left her room to take the lift down to the foyer.
Chad was rising from an armchair beside a potted plant in the spacious foyer when she stepped out of the lift, and her heart skipped a suffocating beat at the sight of him. His brown leather jacket emphasised the width of his shoulders while the brown slacks and beige polo-necked sweater heightened his tanned complexion, and Megan's legs felt as if they were rapidly turning to jelly beneath her as she walked towards him across the thickly carpeted foyer.
'Am I late?' she asked, searching his rigid face for signs of his recent illness, but finding none.
'I was a few minutes early.'
His stern features did not relax, and Megan felt that well of anxiety spread inside her as she accompanied him out of the hotel to where he had parked his blue Porsche.
She was already having grave doubts about her decision to have dinner with him when he slid into the driver's seat beside her and turned the key in the ignition. She stole a quick glance at him, but his chiselled profile did not encourage conversation as he edged his car into the traffic, and she realised with a sinking heart that it was too late now to change her mind.
'Where are we going?' she felt compelled to ask some minutes later when Chad turned off on to a road which led away from the city centre.
'I've arranged for us to have dinner at my home.' He stared straight ahead of him at the traffic, but in the dashboard light Megan could see his mouth curving in a faintly mocking smile. 'Do you have any objections?'
The frightened beat of her heart subsided slowly as her rational mind took charge of the situation. Chad was obviously going to do his best to unnerve her, and she was not going to allow him that victory.
'Would you change our dinner venue if I objected?'
'No.'
His abrupt answer made her smile wryly into the dark interior of the car. 'I didn't think you would.'
Chad did not respond to that unaccustomed hint of sarcasm in her voice, and they drove on in silence towards the outskirts of Johannesburg.
The atmosphere between them was incredibly tense and strained, and Megan was beginning to think they would never reach their destination when Chad steered the Porsche on to a single-lane road leading off to the left. They passed beneath a stone arch at the entrance to a long, curving, tree-lined avenue, and Megan caught a glimpse of lights up ahead. She was not sure what she had expected to see, but she was totally unprepared for what she finally encountered when they emerged from the avenue of tall poplar trees.
Chad's home was a sprawling Cape Dutch style house. With no sign of another house in the vicinity, she imagined that his home had to be set on several acres of land, and she regretted the fact that the darkness obscured so much from her view.
'My father bought this piece of land and had this house built when he married my mother,' Chad explained when they got out of the car, and his hand was firm beneath her elbow when they walked up the shallow steps towards the gabled entrance.
Megan glanced up at the ornamentation above the heavy oak door, and found it ironic to see Cupid, his bow and arrow poised, carved into the wood above the entrance to a house in which love had gone so dreadfully awry.
The door was opened as if on cue by a white-coated black man, and Chad's hand shifted from Megan's elbow to the hollow of her back as he ushered her into the spacious entrance hall where the heavy crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling shed prisms of light across the earthy-coloured tiles on the floor.
'You're back sooner than I expected, sir.'
'Harry, this is Miss O'Brien,' Chad introduced Megan, 'and if I'm back sooner than you expected, then it's because Miss O'Brien happens to be a very punctual lady.'
Harry inclined his head at Megan in a silent but polite greeting before he relieved her of her coat and draped it carefully on the old-fashioned stand in the hall.
'Will you have something to drink before dinner, Megan?' offered Chad as he took her through to the living-room where their footsteps were muted by the thick pile of the carpet on the floor. 'A glass of wine, perhaps?'
'A glass of wine would be lovely, thank you,' she agreed with a nervous smile, and glanced about her with interest while Chad walked away from her towards the heavy oak cabinet in the corner of the room.
The living-room was furnished with antiques and, despite Megan's ignorance on the subject, some of the pieces were undoubtedly priceless. The plush seats and backrests of the ornately carved rosewood bench and chairs had been covered with a cool blue velvet that matched the curtains drawn across the high sash windows, and on a low-slung stinkwood table against an inner wall stood a tall, narrow-necked vase which was obviously of Oriental origin.
It was an exquisitely furnished room, but it lacked that warm, lived-in feeling, and that was such a pity, Megan was thinking when Chad handed her a long-stemmed glass of wine.
She slid her fingers around the delicate crystal-cut bowl to avoid touching his hand, and sipped the dry white wine in the hope of steadying that nervous flutter in her stomach.
'I presume this is where you usually entertain your lady-friends?' she questioned him caustically, and his mouth tightened with a suggestion of annoyance, making her realise her mistake even before he answered her.
'You're the first woman I've ever brought to my home.'
Megan regretted her impulsive query and, feeling awkward, she turned from him to study the large, heavily framed painting which was hanging above the stone fireplace. It was a portrait in oils, and the subject was a harsh-faced, dark-eyed man with silver streaks slicing through the coppery hair at his temples.
'That's my father.'
'I gathered as much,' Megan remarked, turning her back on that disapproving and embittered face in the portrait to seat herself in the chair Chad had indicated. 'You have your father's mouth and square jaw, but the resemblance ends there.'
'My sister Matty is almost the image of my father.' Chad set his glass on the low, ornately carved table with the glass top to take off his leather jacket. 'Perhaps that's why my father spoiled her so much,' he added, smiling cynically as he retrieved his glass and seated himself on the chair facing hers.
Megan was remembering some of the things Chad had told her about himself and his family, and most especially she was recalling what he had said during his bout of delirium. She had suspected then that there was no fondness between him and his sister, but there was no doubt in her mind about it now.
'Did you have a good relationship with your father?'
She had not intended to ask him that, but she was finding it difficult to behave naturally when she was so intensely aware of his long-limbed, muscular frame lounging in the chair close to hers. She could see him in her mind, stripped down to his jogging shorts and his body racked with fever. The scent of him and the feel of him would remain with her forever after those long hours of nursing him, but she dared not think about that now.
She leaned back in her chair and tried to relax, but her fingers trembled around the fragile stem of the glass as she raised it to her lips, and the sardonic lift of Chad's eyebrows told her that her discomfiture had not gone unnoticed.
'My father taught me a lot.'
Yes, she thought sadly. He taught you never to love and trust anyone—especially a woman—and, in the process of learning, his cynicism and bitterness became yours.
The ticking of the old-fashioned clock on the mantelshelf seemed to increase in volume during the ensuing silence, and Megan said the first thing that came to mind in an attempt to ease that build-up of nervous tension inside her.
'What made you decide finally to become a vet rather than going full-time into yo
ur father's business?'
'I was forced to sit in on many of my father's business deals. I don't regret it. I learned a lot from those sessions with my father, but it didn't appeal to me as a full-time career. I wanted an outdoor job, preferably a medical one which would involve animals, and that's why I decided to become a veterinary surgeon.' He stretched his long, muscular legs out in front of him, and smiled as he studied the tips of his suede shoes, but the smile did not reach his steel-grey eyes. 'I never considered it at the time, but, the way things are, I now have the best of both worlds.'
'That's true, I suppose,' she agreed, leaning forward to set her empty glass on the low table between them, and they lapsed once again into a silence which was threatening to become awkward when the white-coated black man appeared in the doorway.
'Shall I serve dinner, sir?'
Chad glanced at the gold watch strapped to his lean wrist and nodded. 'Thank you, Harry.'
He drained his glass and, rising, held out his hand to Megan. He drew her to her feet, his fingers warm and firm about hers, and it sent an unwanted current of awareness tripping across her nerve-ends. Chad felt it too, she could see it in his eyes and feel it in the tightening of his fingers about hers, and it left her oddly breathless when they walked out of the living-room and across the tiled entrance hall towards the dining-room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chad's home was a showpiece of grandeur, with a banqueting hall in which twenty or more dinner guests could be accommodated with ease at a long table which was an attractive mixture of stinkwood and yellowwood. Chandeliers, hanging low from the beamed ceiling, were reflected in mirrors above ornately carved antique dressers, and gilt-framed paintings, all originals by well-known artists, adorned the walls.
It was an awe-inspiring sight, but the room where Megan dined with Chad was smaller and much less ostentatious. The lights against the panelled walls had been dimmed and, against the white damask tablecloth, the silverware sparkled in the flickering light of the candles in the silver candelabrum on the table.
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