Dark Betrayal

by Patricia Lake

  Dark Betrayal

  Patricia Lake

  Even after three years, Deborah was still fascinated by Jake, this dark, possessive man who had given her such happiness for such a short time. And, despite his betrayal, she still missed him...

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain 1986 by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Patricia Lake 1986

  Australian copyright 1986 Philippine copyright 1986 This edition 1986

  ISBN o 263 75305 o

  CHAPTER ONE

  'You will come?' Tess persisted, her voice faint and crackling, pleading long-distance.

  Deborah stretched languidly, blinking, her eyes still not accustomed to the cool gloom inside the villa, after the brilliant sunshine outside. 'Tess ... I don't know . . .' She felt uncertain, surprised by the invitation, by the long-distance telephone call. She hadn't heard from Tess in three years, and she and Oliver were not planning to return to England for at least another fortnight. Tess's big party was at the end of this week.

  'Oh, Deborah, it's my twenty-first!' Tess wailed, annoyed at the prevarication. 'Everybody will be there. You must come—both of you, of course,' she added, hastily escalating her persuasion by including an invitation for Oliver.

  Everybody? Deborah, still hesitating, felt a strange frisson of panic running down her spine. She wanted to ask if Jake would be there. Was that what Tess meant when she said everybody? But she didn't dare. It was too risky to even voice the question.

  He'll be too busy, she told herself frantically while Tess waited impatiently for her answer on the other end of the line. Too busy to attend his sister's twenty-first birthday party? She was probably fooling only herself.

  'I'll ask Oliver,' she said hurriedly, as the expensive seconds ticked by and she couldn't make a decision or even think of an excuse. 'And ring you back tomorrow—promise.'

  'Deborah ... it's not because of what I said ... is it?' Without waiting for an answer, Tess continued. 'I didn't really mean it, you know—I was upset ...' Her voice faded, coming back stronger a second later. 'We can talk about it when we meet. I want to explain, to apologise.'

  'It's all right, really, you don't have to explain ... I'll ring tomorrow.' Panic building, Deborah repeated herself almost desperately, and Tess was forced to accept the prevarication.

  Seconds later, Deborah replaced the receiver and found that she was trembling violently. She pushed a hand through her fine blonde hair, all the relaxed languor of a morning's sunbathing gone in a flash, leaving her tense and haunted by memories she had been desperately trying to forget.

  For the billionth time, Jake's dark serious face rose unbidden in her mind, bleak fury darkening his grey eyes, his mouth hard and cruel and sensual. That was how he had looked at her when they parted for the last time; when Deborah had run away, as far and as desperately as she could.

  She shook her head, as though physically trying to dislodge the disturbing thoughts. She was still shivering, her body stiff with anguish. Three hellishly long years, she thought contemptuously, and still the thought of Jake sent her into a fever of despair.

  Inside the villa, it was cool and dark, the terracotta tiles on the floors and the shuttered windows jealously guarding the lower temperature, closing out the heat beyond the walls. Deborah felt icy, suddenly frightened as she tried to blank out her thoughts. And she found herself almost running back out into the relentless sunlight, back to the deep glinting pool, and Oliver.

  She watched him with concentration as she approached. Dear Oliver. He was the closest friend she had. He was her stepbrother, and although there was no blood tie, they were closer than brother and sister. Both only children of first marriages, they had come together happily, glad of the new, reassuring family life, until both parents had been killed when an articulated lorry skidded across the central reservation of the motorway, one dark winter afternoon. Deborah had been seventeen, suddenly alone, and had clung to Oliver in her grief, the bond between them growing stronger as time passed.

  He was eight years older than her, a half-strong, half-weak vibrant man, whose perception and understanding of life was reflected in his vast paintings. He was a true artist, pouring all his emotion into his work, living on his nerves, his wits. Tall and thin, he had a quick jerky grace, his face tanned and so angelic, his eyes belying it all, wicked, worldly and intelligent. His tongue could fling acid and he veiled his feelings beneath an impenetrable flippant wit, that made him difficult to get to know. But he was always kind and protective towards Deborah. She never knew what he was really thinking, or what he really felt. But he was familiar, she knew she could turn to him. It was all they asked of each other, their love and affection always unspoken.

  A few steps brought her to his side. He was stretched out on a lounger, idly reading a newspaper. They had spent the morning in the sun, swimming, drinking coffee and reading the English newspapers. This had been the pattern since she had arrived in Corfu, for a much-needed holiday. Neither of them had the inclination for anything too energetic.

  Oliver looked up as she sat down, pushing his pale blond hair from his eyes, in a characteristic gesture.

  'Who was it?' he demanded with a lazy smile.

  Deborah looked at him, her eyes unfocused. 'Tess,' she revealed quietly, after a moment's silence. 'Tess Logan.'

  Oliver's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He paused, then asked carefully. 'What did she want?'

  It wasn't difficult to see that Deborah was upset, unsettled by the call. He knew how fragile she was, even after three years away from Jake Logan.

  Deborah heard the carefully moderated concern in his voice, saw the worried look in his eyes, and made a concentrated effort to pull herself together.

  Her lips moved in the semblance of a smile. 'It's her twenty-first birthday party at the end of this week. She's invited us both.' Her voice was almost steady, but she was cursing herself for being all kinds of a fool. What was the matter with her? Surely she wasn't going to crack up because Tess had invited her to a party?

  Oliver narrowed his eyes against the sun. 'We don't have to go. We hadn't planned on going home for at least another two weeks.'

  'I know.' Deborah was remembering the pleading note in Tess's voice.

  At one time she and Tess had been good friends, close friends, almost like sisters. The last time they had met, Tess had been tearful and accusing. They had fought because of Jake, Tess fiercely loyal to her brother and, not knowing the truth of the situation, saying things that she obviously regretted now.

  In a numb hurt way, Deborah had been able to understand Tess's anger. She still cared. Tess hadn't disguised how important the party, and Deborah's being there was to her.

  Wouldn't it seem churlish and ungrateful not to give Tess the chance to deliver the apology she obviously thought so important?

  'On the other hand,' Oliver remarked, still watching her carefully. '
It might just exorcise a few ghosts.'

  Deborah didn't answer. She stood up, her eyes troubled. She didn't even want to think about it.

  Poised on the tiled edge of the pool, she dived cleanly and surfaced, gasping. The water felt icy against her overheated skin. She glanced at Oliver as she trod water and shook back her wet hair. He was lying back, eyes closed, seemingly asleep. He had accepted her abrupt dismissal of the subject.

  But she couldn't keep her thoughts at bay for ever, and that night she lay in the hushed darkness of her bedroom, and couldn't dam them back any longer.

  She had been dozing, exhausted by the emotional strain of the day. She woke with a start, her heart pumping in her ears, Jake's name on her-lips.

  She looked round the room with wild eyes, straining to see in the darkness. She looked at the clock. She had only been in bed for an hour. It seemed like years.

  Closing her eyes again, she sank back against the cool softness of the pillows. 'No,' she whispered, shaking her head. 'No.'

  It was all starting up again. The nightmares, the pain, the terrible need. All triggered by Tess's innocent 'phone call.

  Superficially she had been getting over it. She had been sleeping easier, even though she still thought of Jake twenty-four hours a day, even though he was still inextricably woven into every fibre of her being. She had been coping.

  Sighing miserably, she climbed out of bed, knowing that she wouldn't sleep, walked over to the windows and threw open the wooden shutters.

  Outside, the night was clear, the moon high over the flat sea below, a faint scented breeze fanning her hot cheeks.

  The dream was still too vivid in her mind, blocking out everything else. She could see nothing but Jake's face, the high tanned cheekbones, the hard powerful angle of his jaw, and his eyes, wild and dark and aggressive, gleaming like a wolfs in the night.

  It seemed to her that his strength, his power reached out to her. Was he thinking of her now?

  Her mind told her not to be so stupid, but her heart knew that somehow he was near, that incredible silent, explosive communication they had always shared, working again, whispering his threat across the miles.

  She shuddered, her skin cold, her heart aching. It was over. Over. It was she who had lied, she who had rim. And there was no going back.

  Quietly opening her bedroom door, she crept silently into the small lounge and poured herself a small measure of scotch from the low table full of bottles.

  She looked round the room, catching her own dark reflection in the long sliding windows. She was a tall slender figure wrapped in pale grey silk. Her hair was tousled, her green eyes too big in the delicate heart of her face. She stared anxiously at the tense reflection, hardly recognising herself, she felt so disorientated.

  Was this how Jake had seen her? Had she looked like this when he lifted her into his powerful arms and carried her to his bed; on all those nights of fierce hungry passion, when he had taken everything and still demanded more?

  Shivering violently in rejection of such memories, she curled up in the corner of one of the linen-covered couches, cradling the glass of scotch between trembling hands.

  The room was filled with shadowy moonlight, the pale walls lined with Oliver's harsh paintings, their colours seeping away in the soft monochrome glare.

  It was a beautiful room, very modern, very chic, all light and shade.

  The villa belonged to Oliver now, payment for a series of portraits of an old titled family with little cash but plenty of property. It had been a good commission—and they were few and far between. Oliver had jumped at it with all of his customary lust for life, for experience and fame and fortune.

  She sipped her scotch slowly, hating the taste but needing its calming effects.

  Should she go to Tess's party? The question had been spinning round her brain all day, and she had been unable to come up with an answer.

  Oliver had been no help at all. He had made it clear that as far as he was concerned, it was up to her to decide.

  Over dinner, when she had tentatively raised the subject again, he had eyed her narrowly and said, 'Don't ask me, for God's sake, I'm not the one who's running away.'

  And when she had protested, he had merely shrugged and added, 'Look, darling, just let me know when you've made up your mind, and in the meantime let's talk about something else, okay?'

  And that had been that. Except that she couldn't make up her mind, however hard she tried.

  It had taken all the courage she possessed to leave Jake three years ago. Since then she had been

  struggling to piece herself together, unable to become whole again because her heart would not stop aching.

  Again and again her mind went back to their first meeting. She didn't know why, but today, she just couldn't get it out of her mind.

  It had been too late for her the moment their eyes first met. If only she hadn't taken up her best friend Charlotte's offer of a stay in a tiny cottage in the Lake District. If only she hadn't felt so miserable and lonely. If only she'd gone to France and spent the summer with Oliver.

  If only. Her life was filled with if onlys, and they didn't change a darned thing.

  That summer had been so hot—the hottest on record, the radio had said. And Deborah was nineteen and wanting to be alone.

  She had just finished her third year at Art College, and had a huge backlog of work to catch up on, owing to a bout of illness at the beginning of that year.

  The cottage was tiny, beautiful and very old, nestling in isolation in the hills above Lake Windermere.

  Deborah set up her easel on the stone-flagged kitchen floor and worked every day with the back door open and the lake shimmering away beneath her.

  With Oliver away and most of her friends on holiday in various parts of the world, her loneliness enclosed her solidly but not unpleasantly.

  She ached for love, for romance, for the closeness she had somehow missed since her father and stepmother had died. There were men in her life, of course. Fellow students, dear friends, like Robert, whom she had known from childhood. But none of them touched her heart, her involvement always half superficial, unsatisfactory.

  She was shy, sensitive by nature, yet impulsive and deeply passionate, always ruled by her heart. Looking back, she could see how unprotected from the world she had been, how very vulnerable to the life and love she craved.

  One blisteringly hot evening, a week or so after her arrival, she took a walk before preparing dinner, her back aching from the day's work.

  The air was still and heavy, alive with summer insects and she walked eagerly, content to stare at the beauty around her.

  She had discovered a wide deep stream not far from the cottage and strolled towards it.

  The water looked cool and clear and inviting, and on impulse, first glancing round to check that there was nobody about, she stripped off her clothes and slithered down the grassy bank to the water.

  It slid over her hot body like cold silk, intensely pleasurable and she swam, floated on her back, watching the sky tinged with pink at the edges as the sun began its slow descent.

  It was so silent, so peaceful, only the birds, a faint rustling in the treetops, and the smell of summer all around her. Even now she could remember it all so vividly, every breath, every heartbeat. Every sense had been alive, exposed like cinematic film to the beauty around her, storing the images away never to be forgotten.

  She stayed in the water for ages, cooling herself, until her stomach began to growl with hunger. Then she climbed out of the water, wringing out her hair, smoothing it back from her face into a gleaming golden cap.

  As she raised her eyes, she had seen Jake for the very first time, crouching on the bank above her.

  She froze, her heart stopping, her green eyes widening with shock. He was only a few feet away, but he was between her and the pile of hastily discarded clothes, and she felt the colour pouring into her face.

  He didn't move, he didn't speak and she was frig
htened by his silence, receiving only the impression of his strength, his shoulders wide and powerful against the sky.

  Her hands fell to her sides, dropping quickly. His face was in shadow until he moved slightly and their eyes met.

  It was as though the impact was physical. He could have hit her and she wouldn't have been more shocked, more stunned. She stood perfectly still.

  The man's eyes were grey, slightly narrowed as he stared at her. She could read no expression in them at all yet she could not look away.

  As their glances locked for long inexplicably slow moments, Deborah felt a strange heat rising through her body, tensing the muscles of her stomach. She was no longer frightened or embarrassed, she felt only as though she was drowning in the grey depths of the stranger's eyes. Then, suddenly a huge magpie rose, flapping from the branches of a tree behind her. It's harsh cry filled the quiet air, making Deborah jump, bringing her back to some kind of reality.

  She looked away, lowering her head, her face scarlet as she moved towards the pile of clothes.

  'Excuse me ...' Her voice shook a little, very cold.

  He did not move. He was still and silent. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, her breath catching in her throat. He was staring at her, his dark gaze moving over her naked body in slow masculine appraisal, lingering on the taut uptilted softness of her

  breasts, on the pale smoothness of her thighs.

  Deborah felt as though she was suffocating, caught in some strange electric forcefield. To her own humiliation, she could feel herself responding mindlessly to the sensual awareness in the man's grey eyes. Her breasts were aching heavily, the muscles of her body clenching. His cool gaze returned to her flushed face. Swallowing painfully, she stammered. 'Go away, I want to get dressed.'

  The spell was broken. She could feel cold water dripping from her hair down her spine.