The Longest Pleasure

by Anne Mather

  Helen swallowed. ‘I’ll make the coffee now——’

  ‘No.’ Startling her, Rafe put out his hand and ran his fingers over the shining curtain of her hair. ‘The coffee can wait,’ he said huskily. ‘I think we’ve got some talking to do.’

  ‘Talking!’ Helen croaked, and then cleared her throat to relieve the obstruction. ‘What about?’

  ‘You know what about,’ said Rafe flatly, withdrawing his hand and stepping back so that she could precede him back into the living room. ‘I want to know what you intend to do after the wedding. For instance, do you intend to go on keeping me at arm’s length after we’re man and wife?’

  Helen’s heart was pounding, and feeling incapable of dealing with him in this mood, she panicked. But when she turned to confront him in the living room, Rafe flopped down wearily on to a couch. ‘God, I’m bushed!’ he muttered, sinking back against the cushions. ‘You know, I think we’re going to have to save this conversation until I’ve had a nap. If you could just give me—fifteen minutes, I’d be able to conduct our discussion with more impassivity. As it is, you’ve got an unfair advantage. You body keeps getting in the way of my detachment.’

  Helen stared at him and, with a weary grimace, he closed his eyes. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he insisted, trying to get comfortable against the arm. ‘You go and get dressed, there’s a good girl!’

  ‘You can’t sleep here!’

  Helen spoke impulsively, and Rafe’s eyes slitted to regard her without liking. ‘Okay. I’ll sleep in the Rover,’ he said, pushing himself up, and she had to snatch up his jacket to prevent him from putting it on.

  ‘I only meant you can’t sleep on the couch,’ she exclaimed frustratedly. ‘I—you know where the bedrooms are. Go and lie down. I’ll wake you in an hour.’

  Rafe’s shoulders sagged. ‘If you’re sure …’

  ‘Of course.’ Helen was unconsciously hugging the sheepskin jacket to her. ‘Go on. You’ve got plenty of time.’

  ‘Okay.’

  With a shrug, Rafe ambled out of the room and, after he had gone, Helen breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Then, realising she was clutching the jacket like a life-line, she threw it back on to the couch. She had an hour to get herself under control. It was more than she had expected, and certainly more than she deserved.

  But when, after spooning freshly-ground coffee into the filter, she returned to her bedroom to wash and dress, she discovered Rafe flaked out on her bed. He had kicked off his boots, but they were his only concession to his surroundings. For the rest, he was still wearing the cream cotton shirt and mud-coloured Levis he had worn to travel in, and in sleep he looked achingly vulnerable. He must know this was her room, she thought helplessly. The bed was tumbled, just as she had left it. But, perhaps he had been too tired to care.

  In any event, it curtailed her activities. She could hardly go opening drawers and cupboards without disturbing him and, in spite of her misgivings, that was something she didn’t want to do. She actually found the sight of him flat out on her bed very sensual, and she thought it was just as well he was unaware of it.

  She wakened him at ten, taking care to do so from the safety of the doorway, and he rolled over to regard her with brooding eyes. ‘You’re not dressed,’ he observed, pushing his legs over the side of the bed and dragging himself into a sitting position. ‘What game are you playing now?’

  ‘It’s no game.’ Helen was defensive. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, this is my room. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Oh—yes.’ He blinked and looked absently at the pink and gold decor. ‘I remember now. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Helen spoke stiffly. ‘Would you like some breakfast?’

  ‘Coffee—nothing to eat,’ said Rafe, sweeping back his hair with a weary hand. ‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom first?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Helen withdrew, and she had carried the tray into the living room and set it down on a low table before he appeared. He had evidently washed and combed his hair, and although there was the shadow of a growth on his jawline, he looked much fresher and infinitely more alert.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the cup she offered him, and setting it down again. ‘Aren’t you having any?’

  ‘I’ve had some,’ said Helen, hesitating only a moment before curling her length on to one end of the couch. ‘Do you feel better now?’

  ‘Almost human,’ he agreed drily. ‘How about you? Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘A doctor!’ Helen was thrown off-balance. ‘It’s Sunday!’

  ‘I do know what day it is. I meant, to have the pregnancy confirmed,’ said Rafe, lowering his weight beside her, and Helen caught her breath before replying.

  ‘I—no,’ she said at last, realising there was no way she could have prepared herself for this. ‘As—as I said on the phone, perhaps we should give ourselves a little more time——’

  ‘You’ve changed your mind.’ Rafe’s tone was flat. ‘Why?’

  Helen shifted under the prickling heat of his gaze. Now was the time to tell him, she knew, but the words just wouldn’t come. ‘I—haven’t changed my mind,’ she said. That was the truth! ‘I—just—think——’

  ‘——you think I’ve changed mine,’ cut in Rafe,

  moving so that his thigh was pressing against the toes coiled beneath her. ‘Well, that’s reasonable,’ he added, running a disturbing hand over the smooth satin-covered curve of her knee. ‘I haven’t exactly made you feel that our marriage can be a success. I’ve been so tied up with my own feelings, I haven’t given enough thought to yours.’

  ‘No, that’s not it!’ The sensuous brush of his fingers was seductive, but Helen had to keep her head. ‘I think I spoke—prematurely. I—I may not be pregnant after all.’

  Rafe’s eyes bored into hers. ‘What did you say?’

  Helen quivered. ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But I don’t believe it,’ he retorted. He sighed. ‘Come on, Helen. Stop putting me on! We’re getting married in ten days, and there’s not a chance I’ll agree to a postponement!’

  Helen met his steady gaze with sudden apprehension. He meant it, she knew. She was committed to this marriage, whether she wanted it now or not, and she felt frighteningly like the skier who has set the avalanche in motion.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she began, but Rafe was not listening to her. With studied precision, he was sliding the hem of her robe from her ankle to her knee, and she watched in awful fascination as he bent his head to follow its trail with his lips.

  With a jerky jack-knifing movement, Helen endeavoured to escape him then. But the folds of her robe were too tightly wrapped about her legs, and when she tried to scramble off the couch, she lost her balance and landed on the floor at his feet. Immediately, he was beside her—but not to help her up. As she fought to evade his possessive hands, his mouth sought the frantic appeal of her lips and, although she despised herself for it, she felt her instinctive response.

  ‘You want this just as much as I do,’ he muttered, bearing her down on the rug and, in spite of all her protests, she was powerless to resist. Against her will, her hands slid round his neck, tangling in the sleek blond hair and, when his tongue invaded her mouth, she melted beneath him. With a groan, Rafe parted her robe, burying his face between the scented beauty of her breasts. Then, tearing his shirt apart, he crushed her softness against the muscled hardness of his chest, devouring her mouth with such hunger, she tasted her own blood on her tongue.

  ‘My God!’ he groaned harshly as she arched against him. ‘You should have told me this was what you wanted! We’ve wasted such a lot of time!’ and his strangely bitter words achieved what her senses alone could not. They made her realise that if she let this go on, he would take her here, on her living room carpet, and dredging up the last remnants of her self-respect, she made one final attempt to appeal to him.

  ‘Let me go!’ she pleaded, but although she beat at him
with her fists, she was doing no good. He really thought he could stifle her will with the undoubted skill of his sexual expertise, she realised sickly and, tearing her mouth from his, she raked her nails across his cheek.

  ‘I was lying, do you hear?’ she choked, realising nothing else would stop him. ‘I was lying! I’m not pregnant! I’ve never been pregnant! I just said it to—to spite Antonia!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IT WAS a long, hot summer, the kind of summer Helen remembered that year she was fifteen. London baked in an unaccustomed heatwave, and everywhere there were reports of dried-out reservoirs and water shortages. The antique shop, poorly ventilated at the best of times, was an urban prison, said Melanie, who complained constantly that she was wilting in the heat. But, in spite of her objections, it was not Melanie who showed the strain, and she shook her head frustratedly over Helen’s hollowing figure.

  ‘I can’t understand it!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re not stuck in the shop every day, breathing in petrol fumes every time we open the door and choking to death for lack of air when we don’t. You can just take yourself off to a sale somewhere—usually in the country, I might add—while I keep the ship afloat in a sea of pollution!’

  But these tirades were not to be taken seriously. In fact, Melanie was worried about her, and Helen knew it. Ever since she returned from her holiday to discover that Helen’s ‘engagement’ to Rafe was off, Melanie had been endearingly sympathetic, but although they carefully avoided the reasons for the break-up, the knowledge was there between them like an unvoiced accusation.

  For her part, Helen was trying to get on with her life without a great deal of success. What had once been so important to her had now lost all its charm, and although she worked as hard as ever, there was no joy in what she accomplished. She expected every day to hear that Rafe had married Antonia. For all that she had refused to go out with him again, Adam was a frequent visitor to the shop, and she knew that if Rafe did get married, Antonia would lose no time in using that connection. She sometimes thought it would be easier if she knew they were married. Once she had accepted that there was no hope for her, she might be able to put this unhappy episode in her life behind her.

  But June gave way to July, and July to August, without there being any definite news, and Helen grew frailer by the day. She took to drinking a couple of whiskies every night to ensure herself an hour or two’s sleep, and then gave up the practice when she realised she was beginning to depend upon it. Her appetite was negligible, and Mrs Argyll despaired of her. She even rang Melanie at the shop to ask if she knew what was wrong, but as Helen had kept the news of her involvement with Rafe from her housekeeper, Melanie could not enlighten her.

  And then, towards the end of August, Helen got a call from Frank Graham, the solicitor who had handled her grandmother’s affairs. ‘Is there any chance that you’ll be in Yelversley during the next week or so?’ he inquired hopefully. ‘I realise it’s asking a lot, but there’s something I must discuss with you.’

  Helen moistened her lips. ‘Concerning my grandmother’s estate?’ she asked, in some surprise, and frowned at his reluctant rejoinder.

  ‘Concerning the estate, yes,’ he conceded after a moment. ‘I’d rather not discuss this on the telephone, Helen. If you can’t get into my office, then I shall have to come to London. Is it too soon to give me an answer? Or would you like a day or so to think it over?’

  It sounded serious, and Helen was disturbed. What had Rafe done now? Applied for permission to open the house for visitors, perhaps? Or informed the estate’s solicitor that he intended to get married? It had to be something significant to warrant consulting her. But what earthly use would her opinion be when Rafe was the sole incumbent?

  ‘If—if you really feel you need to talk to me, I could drive down on Friday,’ Helen offered now, frowning as she tried to remember any obligations she had. Tomorrow was Thursday, and she had to attend a sale at Sotheby’s, but so far as she knew Friday was clear.

  ‘Oh, that would be marvellous!’ Frank Graham sounded relieved. ‘What time can I expect you? In the afternoon, I suppose.’

  ‘You’d better make it around three o’clock,’ agreed Helen, anticipating the drive without enthusiasm. ‘Right. I’ll see you then. Goodbye.’

  It was Thursday afternoon before she could tell Melanie about her trip. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked anxiously, realising she really should have consulted her friend first, but Melanie shook her head.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she exclaimed. ‘The break will do you good. It’s just a pity I can’t persuade you to take a holiday. A few days’ rest and relaxation might put some colour in your cheeks.’

  ‘In Wiltshire?’ suggested Helen wryly, and Melanie sighed.

  ‘I know. That wasn’t very tactful,’ she muttered, fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist. ‘But—oh, well, I know you blame me for what happened between you and Rafe, and if it’s any consolation, I wish I’d never interfered.’

  Helen stared at her. ‘I don’t blame you, Melanie.’

  The other girl frowned. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’ Helen bent her head. ‘How could I blame you? It was all my fault. I was the one who told those lies.’

  ‘But—if I hadn’t practically compelled you to confess——’

  ‘You didn’t compel me to confess.’ Helen sighed. ‘I just realised I had to do it.’ She gave a rueful little smile. ‘I thought you despised me for behaving as I did. I thought that was why you’ve been avoiding the subject.’

  ‘Oh, Helen!’ With a little cry, Melanie gathered the other girl’s slender frame into her arms and hugged her. ‘And I thought you couldn’t bear to talk to me about it! What fools we’ve been!’

  Helen hugged her back, and as they drew apart, she said: ‘Well, at least we’ve cleared the air. I’m glad.’

  ‘So am I.’ Melanie was fervent in her agreement. ‘So—what happens now? Do you know why this solicitor wants to see you?’

  ‘He says it’s something to do with the estate,’ admitted Helen doubtfully. ‘Do you think Rafe will be there, too?’ She trembled. ‘I don’t know if I can cope with seeing him. Particularly not if Antonia’s with him.’

  ‘Do you think she’s likely to be?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you should have asked that question of the solicitor,’ said Melanie honestly. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. You’re not up to facing Rafe Fleming in your present state of mind.’

  But whether she was or not, Helen had agreed to go, and her pride would not let her back out now. She refused to consider how she would withstand Antonia’s sarcasm if the other girl should turn up at the interview. It was enough to face the possibility that Rafe himself might have instigated the meeting.

  She wore a sleeveless pink jumpsuit to drive down to Wiltshire. As well as being comfortable and cool, its bloused-waist style hid the narrowing contours of her body, and only her arms displayed their bony thinness. But she couldn’t bear to cover them on a day as warm as this, and she hoped Frank Graham would assume her shape was fashionable.

  Melanie had suggested she check into a hotel in Yelversley overnight, to avoid the long drive back, and Helen had agreed. But as it was almost three o’clock when she arrived in the small market town, she decided to delay arranging her accommodation until after she had spoken to the solicitor. Besides which, she wanted to get it over with. It was too traumatic an occasion to face with equanimity.

  Frank Graham’s secretary showed her into his office at precisely five minutes past the hour, and Helen breathed a little more easily when she found that they were alone. The sun, streaking through the windows, illuminated an office which was almost as dusty as the windows themselves, and she wondered whether the intention was to encourage procrastination.

  ‘Ah, Helen!’ Frank Graham came forward to shake her hand. ‘So good of you to come. You must be exhausted in this heat! Would you like a cup of tea? I’m sure Mrs Coope
r can supply you with one, if you’re thirsty.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Helen gave the anxious-looking secretary a warm smile. In all honesty, a cold can of lemonade or Coke would have been most welcome, but that could wait until she knew the worst. ‘I don’t need anything, thank you,’ she added, taking the seat Frank Graham indicated. ‘I’d rather know what all this is about.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you, Mrs Cooper.’ Graham waited until the secretary had left the room before resuming his own seat. ‘I suppose you must be rather curious as to why I sent for you. But, rest assured, if it hadn’t been important, I wouldn’t have asked you to drive over a hundred miles!’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘Good.’ He linked his hands together. ‘I’m glad we understand one another.’

  ‘I’m sure we do.’ Helen wished he would get on with it. ‘You said it had to do with the estate,’ she prompted. ‘I appreciate your confidence, but I don’t see how I can be of any help.’

  ‘No—well, as the situation stood the last time we were together, I can understand that,’ agreed the solicitor, lifting the rather unwieldy file she recognised as being her grandmother’s from the tray in front of him. ‘The fact is—the situation is not as it was. And while Lady Elizabeth adjured me to keep certain appendages to her will confidential, until such time as they might be needed, the present situation would seem to be such a time.’

  Helen endeavoured not to get impatient, but Mr Graham’s rather pedantic style of narrative was frustrating. ‘You keep saying the situation has changed,’ she said, gripping her handbag very tightly. ‘How has it changed? Rafe’s all right, isn’t he? He hasn’t—been taken ill or anything?’

  ‘So far as I know, Mr Fleming is in the best of health,’ declared Frank Graham stiffly, not welcoming her attempt to hurry him. ‘In fact, I would go so far as to say he must be. As I understand it, these middle-eastern appointments demand a very rigid medical examination.’