Sweet Compulsion

by Woolf, Victoria

  parts of the centre . . . in other words what the local people would prefer.' His thumb slowly caressed along the smooth pink cheek. 'If we're going to do this in true democratic fashion, an open local meeting would be ideal.'

  Marcy was finding it hard to keep her eyes open. `Mm,' she said, yawning, like a sleepy little kitten, her pink mouth parted to show her neat white teeth.

  Randal's voice spoke again, close to her ear. 'Followed by the formation of a committee, either elected at the meeting, or chosen from among various local bodies.' His mouth lightly brushed the delicate outer lobe of her ear. 'Obviously you should be on this committee,' he said, his mouth proceeding to move, with infinitesimal lightness, over her ear and cheek. `It wouldn't be a bad idea to have Russell and this Sim.' Carefully his lips approached her mouth, oblique, tentative, watching her sleepy face for reaction.

  Marcy heard a strange, heavy beat somewhere above her. A clock? she thought dazedly. Forcing her lids, heavy with the weight of yearning for sleep, apart, she found Randal so close her eyes stared into his in surprise. The -strange sound she had heard, she deduced after a second or two, was the beating of his heart.

  He looked at her in what she considered a very odd fashion. 'Marcy,' he said in sudden huskiness, and his mouth moved with exploratory tenderness against her own. Marcy sighed, her eyes closing again. Her thin arms slid round his neck, and the heavy beating of his heart doubled its pace. He suddenly lifted her

  up into his arms, pulling her on to his knees, and a flutter of anxiety broke through her hazed drowsiness.

  Very clearly, with great dignity, she said, 'Randal, you are not to seduce me.'

  His mouth laughed against her cheek. 'I'm not in the habit of seducing children,' he murmured teasingly.

  `Then what are you doing ?' she asked, feeling a tremor of delight as his lashes tickled against her skin in a soft butterfly kiss.

  `What does one do to children?' he asked. 'I'm amusing you.'

  The answer satisfied her. 'Oh,' she said trustingly,

  leaning back against his arm, aware vaguely of the

  muscled strength of the flesh beneath the sleeve.

  He pressed a brief kiss on each of her closed lids. am amusing you, aren't I?' he asked gently.

  `I'm not sure what you're doing,' she yawned. But

  I like it.'

  Her honesty made him silent, staring down into the small face with a grimness which took all the humour out of his mouth. He wanted badly to kiss her into awareness of him, but she was as confiding as a baby against him, and his mouth twisted sardonically.

  His immobility percolated to her. Her lids lifted. She gazed at him, seeing, at close quarters, the hard bone structure of his face, the self-controlled blue eyes, the stubborn jawline and, with a new realisation, a certain sensual promise implicit in the line of his mouth.

  Dreamily she lifted a hand and ran a finger along

  his lips. 'I have a feeling you aren't to be trusted, Mr Randal Saxton,' she said directly. Not with that mouth.'

  The humour came back to his face. 'My God,' he said, half breathlessly, 'I'm not as dangerous as you are, Marcy. Have you any idea what you're doing to me ?'

  She looked uneasy. 'I think I'd better go,' she said, shifting to escape him.

  He retrieved her without difficulty, his arms tightening around her with an instinctive, unmistakable movement of possession. 'I want you, Marcy,' he said suddenly, his voice sober.

  She was as still as a wary animal, staring at his face. The tone in which he had said it did not frighten her, but his suddenly grave face did.

  Still suffering from the after-effect of the wine, she said clearly, 'Would you care to expand on that remark ?'

  His gravity vanished in a mocking little smile. `Now who's being pompous ?'

  `You can't just say things like that to me without making it clear what you mean,' she frowned, struggling to make herself clear.

  `I could make myself overwhelmingly clear without any trouble at all,' Randal said wryly. But you're slightly tipsy, Marcy, and that would be unfair tactics.'

  `Ah, a sign of moral principles at last,' she said lucidly, her eyes teasing him.

  His face altered again. There was abrupt passion in the blue eyes. 'You irritating, irresistible child,' he

  said thickly, and began to kiss her with a desire which blazed out of him unleashed and utterly shocked and stunned her.

  No one had ever subjected her to such a demonstration of passion, and although she lay unresisting beneath his assault, she was taken aback and staggered by it. His hand slid under her wild mop of hair, shaping her nape with his warm palm, caressing and holding her beneath his hungry mouth. Marcy was brought abruptly out of her sleepy trance as unexpected, unexperienced quivers of feeling began to erupt all over her slender body. Without being able to think under the storm which was engulfing her, she began to kiss him back, her soft lips so novice as she did so that Randal was almost touched, except that the quivering movements she was making were sending wild sensations of delight through his whole body and making him spin rapidly beyond hope of regaining control.

  Realising he had to put the brake on his own passion, he sharply pulled back his head, breathing fast. Marcy lay, with tightly closed eyes and parted mouth, a passionate, helpless sweetness in her face.

  `I think,' said Randal carefully, 'that I'd 'better drive you home now.'

  He stood her up, but she staggered, still under the influence of her own passionate abandonment. He caught her, his arms holding her close to his lean body, and she confidingly leaned her head against him. Randal stared down at her, his mouth wry. `You're just a baby,' he said, half ruefully.

  `I'm so sleepy,' she yawned. 'Oh, please, let me go to sleep.'

  Randal bit his lower lip, frowning. Then he lifted her entirely into his arms and carried her out of the room.

  Walters, hovering in the hall, with an undisguised anxiety in his face, watched in disbelief as his master silently carried her up the stairs.

  Randal bore her into a large, charmingly furnished bedroom and laid her on the white and gold bed. Her lids remained shut. She breathed gently, her slight limbs relaxed. Randal made a face at his own folly, then slid her tenderly between the sheets, still fully dressed, tucked her in carefully, and went out, turning out the light.

  He went downstairs again. Walters still hovered there, discreetly looking at him with a question in those pouched eyes.

  `Bring me some brandy,' Randal said.

  Walters vanished and returned to hand him a glass. Randal surveyed him drily. 'You can go to bed, Walters.'

  Walters shifted from foot to foot. 'The young lady, sir,'" he said unhappily.

  `Is fast asleep like all good little girls,' Randal said with hard mockery.

  Walters looked at him uneasily.

  `Oh, go to bed,' muttered Randal. 'I've no designs on the child, for God's sake!'

  `No, sir,' Walters murmured politely, reassured, and silently departed.

  Randal tossed off the brandy, grimacing. He gazed

  at the ceiling as if speaking to the girl fast asleep in bed exactly overhead. 'Marcy Campion, you incredible child, I must be out of my mind !' he told her aloud.

  Marcy woke up with a distinct impression that something was tickling her nose. She snorted, pushing at it with one hand, but the tickling recommenced a moment later, and reluctantly she opened her eyes, staring incredulously at the face staring back at her.

  Slowly, thinking quickly, she looked around the room in which she found herself. It was a bedroom which had been furnished with a woman in mind, she thought, taking in the delicacy of the white and gold furnishings, the muted shades of the floral carpet, the golden walls. Randal said nothing, did not move, observing her reactions with a wry interest.

  She looked down at her dress, then up at him, in his dark office suit and blue and white striped shirt.

  `That wine,' she said on a sigh.

  His mouth grinned. 'You've no
head, little Marcy.' `You should have taken me home,' she pointed out reprovingly.

  `And missed the chance of getting you into bed ?' he asked mockingly.

  She fluttered her gilt-tipped lashes at him. 'You may be what Russell calls a bloated capitalist, but you don't use methods like that,' she said lightly.

  His fingers played with her tousled bright hair. 'You offered me a hell of a temptation,' he murmured.

  Their eyes met. She felt a strange confusion right in the middle of her body. She looked away. 'Are you

  going to work now? You look very formal and top executive in that suit.'

  `I've called a board meeting at eleven to discuss the Campion Project,' he said, leaning a hand across 'her 'slim body in the bed, so that he trapped her within a barrier of his arms.

  `The what?' Bewilderment filled her face.

  `Don't you remember ?. We discussed it last night.'

  She gave a charmingly penitent smile. 'I don't remember much of anything we did last night,' she said casually.

  His eyes flickered over her open, trusting 'face. `Well, I'll draw up a typed schedule of what we outlined and you can refresh your memory,' he said, amused by what she had admitted. 'Basically, my plan was for the local people to decide exactly what the best use of the property should be . .

  Marcy nodded soberly. 'That sounds reasonable. I'll get up and go back to talk it over with Sim.'

  Randal tensed, watching her. 'Would it be possible for you to wait here for me for a few hours? I would like a chance to talk to the board first before any premature announcement is made.'

  She fixed her green eyes on him. 'You think they may be difficult about it ?'

  `Saxtons stand to lose quite a lot of money over it,' he said.

  She frowned. 'I thought you were the Great Panjandrum there ?'

  His mouth dented humorously. 'Even the general has to convince his army his plan of battle is sound,' he said.

  She shrugged. 'When will you be back ?'

  `Have a long breakfast, then get Walters to find you something to read, or put on a record,' he said. 'I'll be back before lunchtime.'

  `I can't just stay here . . .' she protested, frowning. `Why not ?'

  The question threw her. She looked at him, her nose wrinkling. 'I only came to dinner,' she said plaintively. The green eyes were speculative. 'Randal, you frighten me.'

  He smiled mockingly. 'Nothing frightens the girl from Paradise Street, surely ?'

  `You have a way of taking over things which is pretty alarming,' she observed. 'One minute I was at war with Saxtons, the next I find a takeover bid going on over my head without even realising it.'

  `I think on my feet,' he said coolly.

  `Just what do you think, though?' she mused, half to herself.

  He touched her nose with one finger indulgently. `I'll tell you when I have more time. Right now, I've got to go to that board meeting.'

  She still looked at him apprehensively, and he sighed. 'Marcy, answer one question .

  `Yes ?'

  `Do you-trust me ?'

  She felt the total gravity of the question and answered it in the same tone. 'Yes.'

  He smiled with sudden charm. 'Then wait here patiently until I get back.'

  When he had gone she lay staring at the closed door. She trusted him, and yet . . . there was this

  enormous question mark in her mind, and the trouble

  was she did not even, know what the question was . . .

  There was a knock at the door as she lay puzzling over her own thoughts. 'Come in,' she called cheerfully. Walters appeared, a faint smile on his pouched face, as carefully attired as he had been the previous evening.

  `Good morning, miss,' he greeted her, carrying a cup of tea to her bedside. 'Mr Randal wondered if you would care to borrow some of Miss Anthea's clothes, seeing that you may wish to change before coming downstairs ?'

  `Who is Miss Anthea ?' Marcy asked curiously.

  `Mr Randal's sister, miss,' Walters explained. 'She is in Switzerland at school at present, but many of her clothes are in her room, and I think they will be the right size. Miss Anthea is more or less your build, miss.'

  `That's very kind of Mr Randal,' said Marcy, grinning. What will Miss Anthea say, though?'

  Walters looked confidentially at her. 'She is a very pleasant young lady. She would have no objections at all. Her room is just across the landing, miss—the first door opposite. Next to that is the bathroom. When you are ready, your breakfast will be served in the dining-room.'

  `Thank you,' she said, watching him depart with his silent tread, her face reflecting her amusement. Randal Saxton thought of everything. His mind was, apparently, capable of small commonsense solutions to everyday problems as well as the task of juggling with the difficulties of high finance.

  When she had drunk her tea she went across the landing and peeped in at a delightfully furnished room, all roseate and feminine, which yet betrayed its owner as an adolescent by the large wall posters displayed along one side—enormous photographs of masculine stars of the pop world and films.

  She opened the wall wardrobe which occupied the whole of one side of the room. The door slid back softly to reveal row upon row of clothes which made her gasp. How on earth could one girl ever wear so many? She flicked them through her fingers, admiring them, then stood, grimacing for a moment. In any of them she would feel unreal, as different from her own personality as she had felt last night, seated in -that dining-room beside Randal.

  With hesitation she took down a black velvet trouser suit which caught her eye, and held it out at arms' length to stare at it with pleasure. She had never worn anything like it in her life, but she wanted badly to wear it now. She looked down at her own green dress, crumpled where she had slept in it last night, and a blaze of sudden defiance lit her eyes. Why shouldn't she?

  Fifteen minutes later, having showered and spent some time dressing, she stared at herself in the mirror with incredulity. The reflection which stared back at her was almost a stranger.

  Without giving herself time to argue, she went downstairs and found Walters hovering in the hall. He gave her a quick, surprised look, and she grinned at him.

  `Clothes make the man, don't they ?'

  `You look very charming, miss,' said Walters, ushering her into the dining-room. :Your breakfast will be ready immediately, miss.'

  She looked around the elaborate formality of the room with a grimace. 'Do I have to eat it in here ?' He looked taken aback. 'Well, miss . .

  `Couldn't I eat in the kitchen?'

  Walters looked as aghast as if she had suggested something disgraceful. 'Anatole, miss,' he began.

  `The French chef,' she said, her eyes amused. 'I'm dying to meet him. A mythical French chef in captivity . . . as rare as a dodo.'

  `They are extinct, miss,' Walters informed her with a trace of humour.

  Marcy walked out of the dining-room. 'Which is the way to the kitchen?' she asked, then, by instinct, turned through the green baize door she saw and Walters, muttering under his breath, followed her.

  The kitchen occupied the basement, she found, running down a flight of stairs. When she halted in the long, bright room she found herself face to face with a very thin, melancholy man in a striped apron who was whisking something in a metal basin, his wrist flicking effortlessly at great speed.

  Walters stood behind her, staring in consternation at the other man, whose gloomy expression darkened as he met her inquisitive eyes.

  Marcy smiled, her green eyes full of friendliness. `Hallo, you must be the marvellous Anatole I've been hearing about. I'm Marcy.' She sniffed. 'What a wonderful smell. What's cooking?'

  Anatole's spaniel eyes seemed to rivet on her face

  as she prowled around the room, admiring the highly efficient, modern kitchen.

  `Miss wondered if she could eat her breakfast down here,' Walters told him uneasily.

  `I'm starving,' Marcy informed Anatole, turning to smile at him, her wh
ole face filled with that childlike radiance which was her most obvious attraction. 'I know I shouldn't be after the pig I made of myself last night. The dinner was the best I've ever eaten in my life. I don't know how you can bear to cook for one man when you could be running some enormous ' hotel kitchen. You're wasted here.'

  Anatole stood the metal basin on the table, and put his hands on his hips, staring at her. 'I cook for Mr Saxton because he pays me very well,' he said in perfect English.

  She blinked. 'I thought you were French.'

  `I am,' he said, sniffing. 'If you wish, I can speak in pidgin English. for Mr Saxton's guests I do so. They like it.'

  She laughed. 'Well, plain English will do for me. I'm not a guest.'

  The two men looked at each other over her marigold head. Anatole moved to the hotplate and began to make her breakfast. Walters stood with a dubious countenance, as if wondering what to do next. Marcy looked round at him.

  `Come and talk to me, Mr Walters,' she invited. Anatole looked round at him sardonically. Walters slowly drew back a chair and sat down.

  Marcy grinned at him. 'How long have you worked

  for Mr Saxton?'

  `I worked for his father, miss,' Walters said. 'I came to this house when I was twenty years old.'

  `Tell me about his father,' Marcy invited, smiling acceptance as Anatole placed fresh orange juice in front of her.

  I I. . .' Walters looked uncomfortable.

  `Did he look like Randal ?' Marcy asked, sipping pleasurably as the ice-cold tingle of the fruit juice trickled down her throat.

  `Very similar, miss,' Walters admitted. 'He was a very remote man—clever, hard-headed, but remote. Business was his whole life.' -

  `And Randal's mother ?'

  Walters smiled. 'A charming lady. She was delicate, though, I'm afraid. Miss Anthea's birth took a toll on her health. She died when Mr Randal was in his last year at school. It hit him very hard.'