Duel of Desire

by Charlotte Lamb

  Licking her lips nervously, she said, 'I think I'll sleep by the fire downstairs. It'll be cosy down there.'

  He looked at her savagely. 'I wondered how long it would take that busy little brain of yours to work out that we would have a problem there,' he said. 'You can sleep in the bedroom. I'll sleep by the fire.'

  'Let's toss for it,' she said brightly.

  His arm gripped her suddenly, his hand biting into her waist. Inches away from her face he snarled. 'Don't argue with me. You'll sleep upstairs, I'll sleep down there. You can get to bed now.'

  She dared not protest in the face of that stony expression. 'Well, thank you,' she stammered. 'Goodnight, Alex.' She paused.

  'You'll need bedclothes — it'll get cold during the night. I'll take a look upstairs.'

  She searched around and found an ottoman which held spares; sheets, blankets, duvets, pillows. Alex was in the room beside the fire when she found him. The paraffin lamp smoked slightly on the mantel. His dark head was casting a shadow on the wall behind him as he inspected the row of damp clothes hanging on the guard. She saw his hands pick up her shirt, holding it, staring down at it.

  She moved and he turned, putting it down. They stared at each other across the room. 'I found some bedclothes,' she said huskily. Alex came towards her, throwing an enormous shadow across the ceiling and wall. It seemed to tower over her, black and commanding. He took the bundle she offered him and tossed it to the floor.

  'Go to bed, Deb,' he said thickly.

  She lingered, unwilling to leave him. 'Are you sure you'll be comfortable down here? The floor must be hard.'

  'Are you offering to let me share your bed, Deb?' he asked her unpleasantly.

  She flushed, shaking her head. 'I thought we might rig up something more comfortable…'

  'I'll survive,' he said. 'Oh, for God's sake, get out of here!'

  She left him, her body trembling. She slid into the bed she had made up some time later and turned down the paraffin lamp until it died. In the darkness she could hear the rain continuing to lash against the windows. The thunder and lightning rumbled occasionally, but it seemed farther away. By morning it should be possible for them to walk to the next village, she thought, snuggling under the blankets. The bed was deeply comfortable. Her lids closed. Poor Alex! He would have an uncomfortable night on the hard floor.

  Sleep crept over her as she thought about him, and somehow he accompanied her into her dreams, dominating them as he had dominated the room downstairs with his giant black shadow, looming over her in close pursuit. She awoke with a start, at first unable to remember where she was, then, looking round the unfamiliar darkness of the room, remembering and wondering what time it was now. She fumbled for her watch and looked at it, unwilling to light the paraffin lamp again. Lightning still zipped down the sky outside. It had moved even further away, thought Deborah. She slid out of the bed and went to the window to look out, hoping she might see the time by the next flash. The flash came a few moments later. Her eyes on her watch, she saw with surprise that it was four o'clock. She must have slept for longer than she had thought. It had been ten when she went to bed. Thunder rolled around the sky. The storm had lasted for hours, she thought. She leaned on the narrow sill staring into the darkness. Rain sluiced down ceaselessly. Was Alex asleep? she wondered. Restlessly, she was about to move away when the lightning flared again and by its brief light she saw water flooding across the garden. She frowned. Water? Her body tensed and she turned to run across the room and down the stairs. Water was already washing under the door sill. Splashing through it, she went into the room Alex was using. He had rolled himself up beside the fire, his back towards her. She ran to him, shaking his shoulder. 'Alex… wake up!'

  He had built up the fire and it smouldered redly, giving the room a faint glow. By the light of that warmth Alex's still sleepy eyes travelled up her body. His hand reached out to stroke her bare calf. 'Deb,' he said in a muffled voice.

  'Wake up,' she said urgently. 'The river is flooding. It's coming into the house.'

  Alex seemed to snap into awareness instantly. He uncoiled and stood beside her, still wearing his dressing-gown. Striding across the room, he opened the door and water ebbed softly into the room. He swore beneath his breath. 'God, this explains everything!'

  'What?' she asked, bewildered.

  'The empty rooms,' he said impatiently. 'Mother has shifted all her pictures and ornaments, her furniture, and gone to the village. They're safely on high ground there. She knew the water wouldn't reach the upstairs rooms. Don't you see? That was what she was babbling about on the phone, but the line was so bad I couldn't get her drift. 'What shall we do?' she asked him anxiously.

  He stared at the floor, a frown on his face. 'There's a fireplace in Mother's bedroom. We'll take all the wood up there. We'll have to carry as much food as we can, too. God knows how high the river may rise. We may be marooned up there for a day or so.'

  'We won't be able to cook,' she said, biting her lip. 'There's nowhere to cook up there.'

  'The stove will be out of action down here,' he said impatiently. 'But there's a one-ring paraffin stove in the studio, or at least there used to be. We'll have to make the best of it.'

  'I thought it was bad enough,' she said despairingly, 'but it's getting worse.' 'I'm sorry, Deb,' Alex said flatly. 'But you were the one who insisted on coming.' The water was growing deeper as they talked. Alex picked up a load of wood and moved towards the stairs. Deborah followed him, a bundle under her own arm. They worked as quickly as they could, shifting the wood. Their clothes were dry now, so. she took them upstairs and then went back to help shift the food and crockery from the kitchen. It was half an hour before they had moved everything, and by then the water was obviously much deeper. Alex stood on the bottom stair, calculating the rise. 'I don't think it will get much higher,' he said.

  'You're just trying to comfort me,' she accused, her lower lip trembling.

  He looked at her, sighing. 'You're in no danger from drowning,' he promised.

  They heard a long hiss from the other room as the water reached the fire, and Deborah shivered. 'Water is terrifying like this,' she said.

  He turned. 'Come upstairs,' he said gently. 'You're tired. You must get some more sleep.'

  In the bedroom she moved towards the bed, then halted, flushing. 'What about you? I mean…'

  'I'll sleep on the floor,' he said abruptly. 'I'll use the studio.'

  'It's like an ice box in there,' she protested. She pulled back her covers and slid into the bed. 'Get in,' she said tightly.

  Alex stared at her across the room, his face grim. 'You know I can't sleep with you, Deb. Robin would never believe it was innocent.'

  'Robin isn't here,' she said irritably. 'Your feet are wet and you're cold. I can't let you die of pneumonia. Put out the lamp and get into bed. She turned over on to her side and shifted to the far side of the bed. After a long pause the light went out. Heart thudding, she felt Alex slip into bed. The covers were pulled up further and a pillow shifted. She felt it slide between them.

  'I haven't got a sword to put between us,' he said sardonically. 'That will have to do.'

  Deborah didn't answer, fighting bitter disappointment. She knew, hating herself, that she had hoped to feel the warmth of his body against her back. Silence lay between them. Suddenly she shifted, wriggling to get comfortable. The bed was too narrow for both of them, and the pillow made it worse. Her foot brushed Alex's foot and she was shocked by the clamminess of his skin.

  She sat up, peering at him through the darkness. All she could see of his face was a pale oval. She could make out no features, 'Your feet are frozen, she said, almost accusingly. 'And they're trembling. I'm sure you've caught a chill.'

  'I'm fine,' he said tersely. 'Go to sleep, for God's sake.'

  She hesitated for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do, then taking a deep breath pulled the pillow out from between them. Leaning over, she touched his forehead. It seemed hot
to her, and he moved restlessly as her fingers moved across it. 'I'm sure you've got a temperature,' she said anxiously. 'I told you not to go around for so long in those wet clothes.'

  'I'm perfectly all right,' he snapped on a flare of irritation. 'Stop fussing over me!'

  'You've got to keep warm,' she said nervously.

  His breathing suddenly quickened. 'What do you suggest?' he asked in an unsteady voice.

  Deborah lay down again, turning her back on him. 'We'll have to sleep close together,' she said, trying to sound calmly efficient. 'There's no other way.'

  For a moment he lay still, then his body rolled near her, and she felt him curve himself around her back, his hands moving round her to pull her back against him. She could sense the warmth of his breathing between her shoulder-blades. 'Like this, you mean?' he asked softly, mockery in his voice now.

  She tried to relax, but it was impossible while he held her so intimately. Suddenly he whispered, 'Do you really expect me to sleep, Deb?'

  'Why not?' she asked in a voice she hoped sounded casual. 'We're both suffering from exhaustion.'

  He laughed. 'Curiouser and curiouser, Miss Portman. You're beginning to sound almost human.' The teasing in his voice was interrupted when he sneezed violently.

  'I knew you'd caught a chill,' she said anxiously.

  'Oh, God,' he swore irritably, 'that's all I need!'

  For a while they lay in silence. She breathed regularly, hoping sleep would come. The coldness was seeping away an she felt the warmth of Alex's body close to her back. Discreetly she moved her foot in an effort to find out if his feel were warmer now. They certainly felt less cold, and he sighed as she touched him. She yawned, her body relaxing. Drowsiness crept over her. The rain still poured down outside, drumming against the roof and windows, but the sound of the storm had ceased, and she began to find the noise of the rain hypnotic. Alex seemed to be asleep. His hands were clasped against her midriff, their pressure disturbing. She softly moved them up a little, then she lay thinking about the flood waters. Surely they were safe from them up here? The water would not rise as high as the upper storey. Without noticing it she drifted into unconsciousness which sank over her like the dark waters of the flood.

  Birdsong awoke her. She lay without moving, dazedly aware that something was unusual, then she became alert, realising at a rush that she lay curled against Alex's chest, her face pillowed on his bare shoulder, the comforting rise and fall beneath her the movements of his sleeping body. During the night she must have turned over.

  She remembered everything immediately. Not daring to move, she listened to the sound of his breathing. It seemed shallow to her. She frowned. Was his chill Worse, after all? Tentatively moving her head, she turned so that she could look up at him. Under her warm cheek his skin felt as though his temperature was normal. Looking up at him through her lashes she saw him at an odd angle, the hard chin dark with stubble, his lids closed, a fringe of dark lashes along his cheekbones. She lifted one hand and delicately touched his chin. Under her fingers the dark hairs prickled pleasantly.

  Alex's chin tilted. The silvery eyes opened and looked down into her face.

  For a moment they merely looked at each other. Her body still lay against him, warmly relaxed. Her mouth quivered into a smile.

  'Did you sleep well?'

  'Yes,' he said, sounding surprised. His hand moved to push back a strand of tousled hair from her face. 'So this is what you look like first thing in the morning!'

  'A mess,' she interpreted, wrinkling her nose.

  'Don't fish for compliments,' he teased, his hand returning to tighten around her body.

  She felt a twinge of warning. 'I'll get up and boil some of those eggs for our breakfast,' she told him.

  'Not yet,' he said, his voice deepening. Before she could move he rolled her on to her back and leaned over, looking down at her.

  'Don't spoil it, Alex,' she said angrily. 'This situation is difficult enough without making things worse.'

  'I'm not Robin,' he said cuttingly. 'You're not turning me into a tame little man about the house, Deb. Last night you surprised and impressed me by suggesting we sleep together to keep warm. I thought you showed unexpected humanity. But later I realised how insulting the suggestion was… as soon as you thought I had a chill you started treating me like a harmless child, fussing over me soothingly. I don't intend to be treated that way by you or any woman.'

  She looked at him scornfully. 'Your male ego hurt, Alex? You prefer to play the big bad wolf, is that it? You value that machismo image of yours, don't you? You would have preferred it if I'd locked myself into this room, shivering in terror, forcing you to sleep in an icy room all night. It fits in better with the way you see yourself. Sorry I didn't play the game by your rules, but I couldn't let you catch pneumonia even to pander to your ego.'

  'Damn you!' he ground furiously, his face red. 'You're twisting everything to suit yourself. That isn't how I see myself.'

  'Isn't it? You've played the part so long you no longer even know it is a part,' she said. Her eyes blazed blue fire at him. 'Alex St lames has to be irresistible, striking fear and fascination into every woman he meets, forcing them to admit they can't resist him, then moving on with a shrug to the next target. It makes lovely reading in the popular papers, Alex, but there's nothing much behind the alluring image, is there? All tinsel and glitter on top, but underneath there's just a vacuum…'

  His face tightened until the bones beneath the skin stood out. His eyes pierced her face bitterly. 'You bitch,' he said under his breath. 'You acid-tongued little bitch…' His hands wrenched at her trailing hair, tilting her face upward towards him, and his mouth closed savagely over hers, forcing her lips back on to her teeth in a brief but deliberately cruel kiss. When it was over she lay, shivering, her tongue probing the torn flesh of her inner lip, staring at him with hatred.

  'You swine,' she said huskily. 'That's your only answer, to use force if your famous charm fails, isn't it? You sicken me! I'd rather swim to the next village than spend another night here alone with you.'

  Alex rolled away and slid out of the bed. 'Swim, then,' he said harshly. 'I hope you drown. I'm going to the bathroom. When I come back I shall get dressed. If you don't want to watch me you'd better get out of bed now and get dressed and out of here.' Stalking across the room, he slammed the door behind him.

  Deborah winced as the sound rang in her ears. Her angry attack on him had been fueled more by fear than anger. The erotic pressure of his body against her had made her only too aware of the weakness of her defences against him. Had he chosen to exert the charm of which she had been so scathing she could never have resisted him. Even while he snapped at her she had been consumed with a need to soothe him into smiling at her, but she had fought it down with difficulty, forcing herself to launch a counter-attack in order to rebuild her shattered defences.

  Hurriedly she dressed, her mouth still aching from the savagery of his assault on her. He had always been sharply barbed in his attitude to her, but in the past few days he had grown increasingly savage. Had he felt afraid that some truth lay behind her accusations? Alex was too intelligent not to know that the building of a public image always carried with it the danger that one might come to believe in it oneself. It was a danger which threatened some of their artistes, one which they had often been forced to deal with when the image took over the human being and brought disaster with it.

  Her cotton top seemed to have shrunk. She pulled it down, trying to get it to meet her jeans, but a pale line of midriff still showed. While she was tugging at it Alex returned. Their eyes met across the room warily. He had a masked expression, the rage absent from his face.

  'I'm sorry,' he said stiffly. 'I behaved badly.'

  Deborah sighed, relaxing, having half expected further trouble. 'I suppose we're both under a strain,' she said quietly. 'We're in a difficult situation and we must try to adjust to it.'

  He nodded grimly. 'You have a genius for und
erstatement. The situation may be 'difficult' to you, but I find it intolerable.'

  'I'm sorry,' she said helplessly.

  Alex sneezed and swore under his breath.

  She was tempted to smile, touched by his small-boy irritation with the cold. 'You'd better light the fire,' she said softly. 'You mustn't neglect that cold.'

  He looked at her hard. 'Don't fuss over me, Deb. I've got to get dressed.' He reached over to the chair on which she had placed the pile of his clothes and pulled his jeans up. His hands went to the belt of his dressing-gown and Deborah hurriedly went out of the room.

  Curiously she peered down the stairs. The sunlight reflected on water lapping along the third stair from the bottom. How long would it be before the water went down? she wondered, turning into the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later, feeling refreshed after a leisurely wash, she began to hunt among the piled objects in the small studio looking for the portable stove Alex thought might be among them. She found it after a while, battered and dusty, among a pile of books. Judith would get on with Alex's mother, she thought, her mouth denting humorously. They both had no sense of order. Her eyes rolled over the room. If she had time she would restore it to some sort of tidiness. Curiously, she flicked over a stack of canvases against one wall. Most of them were paintings of flowers or fruit, but one of them had made her pause, her heart thudding.

  She pulled it out and stood it against the wall, staring at it with fascination.

  A portrait of Alex, it showed his head and shoulders against a stormy sky, the colour of which was almost identical to the colour of those silvery eyes. His mother had exactly caught a characteristic expression. Hard, forceful yet strangely vulnerable, the features had been drawn with understanding and love, even a kind of pity which Deborah felt reflected the way she herself felt towards him.

  'Deb, the fire's lit. Where are my eggs?' His voice made her jump guiltily, catching her staring at his picture with her feelings in her eyes.