by Vaso
The dogs accompanied her through the long hall with its glossy red-brown tiled floor, a typical feature of these old houses, and she let them out and locked the door, something she had not bothered to do while they were still with her.
When she returned to the sitting-room, her brightest smile was firmly in place, hiding the anguish that lay in her mind.
'Well, Mr Irvine?'
'Well, Miss McLaren? Were you waiting for me?'
'No.' In spite of herself, she couldn't resist adding, 'Are you disappointed?'
'No,' he countered, but he looked sceptical, for which she could hardly blame him, considering her attitude earlier that evening. 'Are you disappointed that I'm not?'
She shook her head, maintaining her smile with an effort. 'I wasn't expecting you as early as this after what Emma and Mrs Ducaine had to say.'
'It's after one, you know.'
Valentine glanced at the silver carriage clock above the fireplace and then at the cup of coffee she had forgotten.
'Night thoughts,' she murmured dismissively, looking at him from beneath shadows cast by long dark eyelashes. 'You are, of course, the boss, but I'm not on duty at this hour, so unless there's anything particular you want to know .. .?'
'All questions can be asked tomorrow,' he stated. 'I'm not in the mood for thinking of this Fleurmont business tonight.'
She remembered that he had been travelling and noticed that there were lines of fatigue bracketing his mouth.
'Tomorrow, then,' she confirmed. 'However, I do have one question to ask now, if you don't mind: what was your uncle's name?'
'Edward de Villiers.' His eyebrows rose. 'Why? It sounds important.'
Perhaps a fragment of hope had remained, but it died now, although she was careful not to betray the sudden deep weariness that pervaded her being.
'I just wondered,' she said lightly. 'I don't think anyone ever mentioned it to me and I assumed it was Irvine.'
'My mother was his sister,' he informed her briefly.
'Yes. Well, I'll say goodnight, then.' She turned towards the door, afraid that her despair wasn't quite under control. 'By the way, I've left you a flask of coffee if you want it and I've made up your bed.'
His lips twisted into an ironic smile as she glanced back. 'You won't share it with me, Valentine?'
She turned completely to face him at that. 'You don't mean the coffee, do you?'
'I don't.'
With an effort that wrenched her inwardly, she achieved a demure smile; shaking her shining dark head. 'We've only just met, darling.'
'The newness of our acquaintance didn't appear to be worrying you earlier tonight,' Kemp murmured, moving towards her, questing eyes travelling from the perfect bone structure of her face to the pale gleam of her bare right shoulder. 'You made it very clear then just what it was that you wanted, so what's changed?'
'I have,' she said tautly, her eyes bitter.
'You were also very direct then, which you're not being now,' he continued thoughtfully. 'I wonder why? It can't be the discovery that I'm your employer, because it wasn't then that the change took place . . . Or are you one of those women who promise everything and then withhold fulfilment of that promise? There's a name for that type, Valentine.'
'I'm aware of it, but it doesn't apply to me,' she snapped. Calmer, she added, 'Anyway, I'm not sure if you really do know what it was I wanted, Kemp.'
'I know what it was,' he contradicted her softly. 'This! Right, Valentine?'
His left hand closed over her right shoulder and Valentine stood very still, scarcely breathing. Her face was a still mask, but a wild, terrible excitement, mixed with anguished regret, tore at her inwardly as she felt the long fingers move caressingly against her flesh.
'You're quite wrong, you know,' she assured him with deceptive composure.
'Am I?' His smile wasn't kind. 'You knew what you were inviting—ho, begging for—with the attitude you adopted at the party.'
'Perhaps I was drunk,' Valentine suggested with a faint smile.
'You're too intelligent to allow yourself to become drunk, my lady.'
'Then, simply, I've changed my mind. It's my prerogative to do so, after all. I am a woman.' But, dear God, she hadn't .changed it, and it was a hurt worse than anything that had gone before to pretend that she had,
'All woman. Glamorous and lovely and desirable—and available, as you made very clear earlier.' He laughed harshly and she realised anew just how tired
Here where he had little wish to be ... and but for her and the part she had played, he might not be here. Fleurmont would belong to Philip. Valentine knew she ought to tell him who she was, but the coward spirit begged for just a little longer, just a little time in which to experience, just this once, his arms about her and his lips on hers, because when he knew the truth he would never wish to touch her again.'
It was self-indulgence, but she would never have any more of him. Her voice had dropped and contained a silvery, shivery quality as she asked slowly, 'Would I, could I, make it all worthwhile," then, Kemp?'
'Hardly.' His face was unyielding, his.voice too. He would grant her nothing. 'You haven't that sort of power, sweetheart, but you could help me to forget for an hour or two.'
That would never have been enough for her. If only she had had more time. If only. She wanted to sob, to curse the cruel coincidence that had done this to her, but instead she kept her expression immobile and her face was like something carved of marble as she waited.
The hand on her shoulder stirred and slid around to the back of her neck beneath the silky cluster of dark curls, forcing her to tilt her head back while her lashes fluttered down over sapphire eyes in which the pupils had become dilated.
Suddenly disliking the sensation of having pitifully little control over herself or the situation, Valentine tried to quell the throbbing sense of anticipation which was violating her composure. He would kiss her and confirm what she had recognised at her first sight of him, but that was all. This excitement was an overreaction—and pointless. She knew now that she could never be anything in Kemp Irvine's life, and the knowledge was like a fresh wound added to all'the other old ones.
Yet when his lips descended on hers it was like nothing she had ever known. For timeless moments she remained as still as a statue, waiting for the shock to subside, but the lightning darts of sensation flickering through her veins were gaining in strength, becoming both pain and pleasure.
And yet, she thought wonderingly, his hand at the back of her neck and his mouth exploring hers were the only parts of him that were touching her.
The pitch of her arousal gained an intolerable height all at once and an inarticulate murmur came from her throat as her body arched violently towards his, seeking closer contact. Instantly Kemp's arms came round her, gathering her rigid body up against him while his kisses deepened and Valentine discovered just how sensuous his mouth was.
There was a vibrant intensity in the closeness of their bodies, a straining after something more, closer and deeper and greater, something altogether more than this present hunger which locked their mouths together. Valentine felt her hips powerfully caressed as he propelled
her still closer to him, and when his mouth was removed from hers she was gasping.
'Shall I undress you, or is stripping part of your act?' Kemp asked harshly. 'I'm sure you disrobe quite delightfully.'
'No.' Her voice was unusually husky, but a measure of sanity had returned to her, along with a reinforced awareness of what he could have meant to her. Ah, but how could life be so cruel?
'No?' His hands, sensitive, strong hands, caressed her slender waist. 'This is what you wanted, isn't it?'
'No,' she reiterated more clearly, opening her eyes and turning their blue blaze on his face.
One hand moved up from her waist to close over a taut breast. Her kiss-stung lips parted as a choked cry escaped her and the quiv
ering ache in the base of her stomach became unbearable.
'My mind doesn't want it,' she qualified voluntarily, protest and pleasure rningling in her shaken voice.
'Sex has nothing to do with the intellect, sweetheart,' Kemp taunted.'
'But it was never just sex that I wanted, you see,' she murmured, swaying slightly, and then wondered at her own stupid honesty. To have him know of her pain would only increase her vulnerability. Oh, at any price she must hide that from him.
'What then?' he enquired, removing his hands from her, and the severance of contact left her icy cold—but clearheaded.
'Something of a more long-term nature,' she confessed with her best and brightest smile, but it cost her dearly to speak the truth and still conceal its accompanying torment.
'Ah! The directness has returned," he commented and there was cruelty in his intense gaze as he added mockingly, 'I'm afraid your suit is hopeless, Miss McLaren.'
'I'm afraid it is,' she agreed lightly, putting up a slim hand to smooth her hair and noticing that it shook slightly. 'I won't even ask for permission to hope. Anyway, as I said earlier, I've changed my mind.'
'Thank God for that,' he returned sardonically. 'You're not built for the longer distances, angel, only for sprints ... In the heat of a passionate moment you could devastate, but I'd hate to live with you.'
Contemptuous blue eyes glittered over her exquisite face, lingering on her throbbing lips which were swollen by his long kisses and denuded of every vestige of lipstick. Valentine forced another brittle smile. She ought to tell him of her connection with Philip now, she knew, but she felt suddenly lethargic, tired deep into her bones. Tomorrow—tomorrow would do.
'Kemp?'
He shook his head, looking back at her disgustedly. 'Forget it. Suddenly that flask, of coffee you mentioned seems infinitely more appealing than you do ... Unless, of course, you're prepared to tell me just what sort of game it is that you're playing?'
'Does it have to be a game?' she retaliated icily, strengthened by his open contempt. 'I find I've made a mistake, that's all. You'd be doing me a favour if you refrained from referring to it again.'
'Now why in the world should I want to do you a favour?' he drawled.
Valentine couldn't resist it. Soon, she realised an-guishedly, he would not permit her to even address him, let alone flirt. In all probability he would send her away from Fleurmont. Her eyes went limpid and her tone was honeyed as she murmured, 'Most men do.'
'As you yourself pointed out earlier, I'm not most men,' he reminded her. 'I'm not even like them. Most men would soon find themselves ensnared in your mesh, totally confused by your advance-and-retreat tactics. As it is, I'm merely wondering if perhaps the meringue metaphor wasn't apt after all.'
'A hollow woman?' she queried, and hoped she succeeded in hiding her bitterness.
'Well, are you?' Kemp prompted abruptly. 'Beneath the wiles and the artifice—is there anything there at all, Valentine?'
'You might find out,' she suggested sweetly.
'I don't think I can be bothered. I saw clearly just what you were from the moment I set eyes on you, and nothing has caused me to revise my opinion.'
'Yet you will,' she promised him in liquid tones, and wondered bitterly if he would recall her words when she told him the truth. And then. 'I am—me. I can see, I can feel that you despise me for that. But why should I be other than I am? That would be a betrayal, a denial, of what God or nature granted me.'
'Words,' he retorted dismissively. 'They're an intrinsic part of your remarkable act and you use them well, but they don't mean anything, do they? Why don't you go away to your bed? I've been travelling all day and I can do without your silly little sorties at this hour of the night.'
Valentine glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how much time had passed since she had last done so.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Goodnight, Kemp.'
'Really goodnight this time?' he enquired hopefully.
'It was you who delayed my departure last time I said it,' she reminded him with a faint, delicate smile, and drifted from the room, for the ability to move silently was just one of the many arts comprising the whole that was Valentine.
The encounter had drained her, for every word had been an effort. She was tired and a prey to countless regrets, but she still took infinite care over the removal of her make-up and had a shower, grateful for the fact that an adjoining bathroom had been added to her bedroom at some recent time, since she felt unable to face a further encounter with Kemp that night.
Finally she went through the rest of her nightly beauty routine, for she valued her appearance, however much she hated the often disastrous effects of her beauty.
In bed she lay awake, still endeavouring to fully reconcile herself to the knowledge that she could hope for nothing from Kemp Irvine. It made bitter knowing, when she.also knew that could she only have met him without armour, as her true self, she might, given time, have altered his present opinion of her. But the fact of his being Philip's cousin had put an end to that. She would need to be constantly acting, concealing hurt.
She thought about him for a long time, reliving his long kisses, seeing his face, hearing his voice, and the intensity of her absorption brough a fresh fear to her. She had diought of him earlier that here was a man whom she could never bring to his knees, a prime requisite as far as she was concerned, but now- she wondered—could he do that to her, have her at his feet and then trample over her?
Yet though she thought of Kemp so long before sleep came, it was of Philip that she dreamed, experiencing again their first meeting in distorted, nightmarish fashion, and when she woke up with her heart hammering in fear, she forced herself to relive it yet again, as it had really been. They had met, unromantically enough, in a public library, both reaching for Martin Chuzzlewit, and the admiration for Dickens they had both confessed had been just the first of many discoveries of common interests.
Their mutual tastes regarding the arts had been the sobe basis for their relationship, as Valentine had later realised, blaming herself for not seeing more clearly. She had gradually come to feel a certain affection for the young man without ever realising what was happening where his own emotions had been concerned. She had been too absorbed in the programme of films and plays they chose to attend, or else she hadn't cared sufficiently, to wonder why he seemed to have no background to his life. Parents and childhood were never mentioned and she
hadn't asked about them. Nor, in those days, had she had the wisdom to enquire about a man's marital status. She had taken it for granted that he was single. Young-—she had been young and stupid. Never again.
Thus far did her thoughts take her before she slept again, but always fitfully.
In some dark despairing hour of that restless night she took a decision to resign from her post at Fleurmont, but by the time Maude, the Black domestic servant who helped Mrs Jansen in the house, brought her morning coffee, Valentine was in a defiant mood. She had run away from Cape Town, but she could not go on running for ever. To fail to win was one thing; to be actively defeated quite another. She must endure Kemp's contempt which would surely turn to hatred when she told him the truth. It would be agony, she knew, but to run again was out of the question. The one thing she could never escape from was herself. She was what she was, and she couldn't change that because she refused to. The spirit died when forced into an alien shape, its natural in-^ clinations suppressed.
She donned another white dress, a sundress this time, of fine, very soft cotton over which she wore a matching sleeveless jacket with bright Madeira-work at the shoulders and a drawstring at the waist. She spent a long time at her make-up since there were shadows to be concealed beneath her eyes, and she parted her hair in the centre and drew it back from her face, a style which suited her since it fully exposed her high cheekbones, but at the back of her head the romantic dark curls were left free.
Finally, slipping on high-heeled sandals, she went along to the
large breakfast room to find the table set for two. The windows stood wide open and she crossed to them, breathing the sweet clean air of a summer morning while her eyes went to the lower slopes of the surrounding mountains where a host of pale yellow wild flowers spread in a great shining sheet. Freddie Jansen, the husband of the Coloured housekeeper and also a Fleurmont employee, had told her that they had bloomed there of their own accord every summer for as long as anyone could remember, and it was probably from them that the estate had derived its name.
Salome Jansen bustled in with a bowl of fruit and the coffee pot.
'So, the new boss man has arrived, hey?' she said in her quick birdlike voice as Valentine turned to smile at her. 'Last night, he said.'
'Yes. I saw him then.'
'He's a man, that one,' Salome commented briefly, and didn't explain what she meant by that, but Valentine knew. 'Though I must say, he doesn't seem too pleased to be here.'
'No. Well, I suppose it has .been rather forced on him in a way,' Valentine suggested carefully.
'True. Perhaps he'll sell.' Salome paused. 'Well, I must get on. He says he wants to have the Hattinghs up here for dinner tonight, so I've a menu to plan. It'll be good for Fleurmont to entertain again—the dust was starting to settle.'
She left the room as hurriedly as she had entered it, a plump, brisk woman whose hair was dyed a startling shade of amber.
Valentine poured herself a cup of coffee and returned to the window. Just what changes would Fleurmont's reluctant owner bring about? She looked out at the scene which could still hold her attention after six months: there were the horses, a black and two grey mares, waiting for Freddie to come to them, and tiny Binnie Hattingh had already made her way up from the other house in search of her friend Trevor Jansen and they were running about with the dogs, Binnie's silvery fairness contrasting with Trevor's darkness.
Two larger figures appeared, and Valentine felt her stomach muscles contract at the sight of Kemp Irvine, tall and lithe, with the sun making his light brown hair
look fair. Beside him was Freddie Jansen, and Valentine felt amused as she noted that for once his crumpled, Walter Matthau-type face wore a broad beaming smile.
