Age of Consent

by Victoria Gordon

  Then she yawned, glancing up at the kitchen clock and wondering how she could possibly be tired at only eight p.m. Ever since her arrival she’d found herself sleeping long hours, and wondered if it was some sort of biological adjustment to the cooler weather. Dane, Helen knew, had no such problem; he got by on five or six hours of sleep each night, while she seemed to need more like ten.

  But to go to bed now ... it was ridiculous and yet so tempting. Even if it did mean getting up before dawn, she thought, yawning again. Well, she could at least have her shower, and if it woke her up again it wouldn’t be much of a crisis.

  She was just emerging from the shower, hair pulled back by a rubber band and her face flushed from the heat, when Helen saw car lights swinging into the drive, and heard Molly’s gruff warning bark as the vehicle approached.

  ‘Oh ... great,’ she thought, shrugging into a housecoat and scrambling to find her slippers. It wasn’t until the second knock on the door that she realised Dane wasn’t going to answer; he was obviously waiting for her to do it.

  Helen let the caller knock once more, then stalked through to fling open the door herself, mentally cursing Dane as she did so.

  ‘Well.’ Helen merely thought the word; the tall, dark-haired beauty outside the door seemed to breathe it out as if she was savouring the very texture of the word and anything it might imply.

  There were several instantly descriptive words for this woman, Helen thought, the first of them being elegant. But she would have to add in haughty, almost regal, in fact, and certainly beautiful.

  A flowing mane of dark hair, eyes like those of some great cat, quite aristocratic features. Thirty, perhaps a few years over. And certainly the woman who’d ‘phoned earlier; the single word was sufficient to tell Helen that.

  But what to do now? Hardly a matter of great choice, Helen thought. She might be able to fob off a telephone caller, but having arrived in person, there was little doubt the woman fully intended to reach Dane. Still, she had to give it a try.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked politely. ‘Are you lost, or…’

  ‘Oh, don’t be difficult, for goodness’ sake,’ the tall sultry woman muttered, shooting Helen a scathing glance as she almost pushed her aside in striding through the door.

  And once inside, headed straight for Dane’s office. Clearly, Helen thought, the woman had been here before. And equally clearly, she herself was about to bow out of this entire scenario. Try as she might, Helen couldn’t imagine herself attempting to physically restrain the visitor.

  It was a decision thankfully forestalled by Dane stepping through the doorway even as his visitor reached out for the handle. And he didn’t, Helen realised immediately, appear nearly as surprised as could be reasonably expected under the circumstances.

  ‘Well, this is a surprise. What are you doing running around in the middle of the night, Marina?’ It looked and sounded perfect, but Helen wasn’t fooled and she doubted seriously if this Marina was, cither.

  ‘I tried to ‘phone, but this ... person refused to let me speak to you,’ was the reply. ‘You’ve been keeping secrets from me, darling. Here I thought you were slaving over a hot typewriter; that is what you said you’d be doing. And instead I find you’ve been … entertaining?’

  Helen flinched at the naked innuendo, and even more so at the smooth, purring cattiness of the tone. Again she had the feeling that there was something inordinately feline about this woman, especially when one manicured finger stretched out to stroke a path along Dane’s forearm.

  Definitely cat, Helen thought, seeing in her mind that finger with a claw withdrawn only enough to be polite, but still revealed enough to proclaim a form of dangerous possessiveness.

  ‘This ... person, is Helen Fredericks, an old friend and now a sort of house-guest,’ Dane replied, seemingly ignorant of the spell this woman appeared to be trying to weave. ‘Helen, this is Marina Cole, and if you did put her off on the ‘phone, don’t feel badly about it, because you were only doing exactly as I’d asked.’

  But not, Helen couldn’t help thinking, what he’d really wanted. No, if he’d known the identity of the caller, he’d have been on the ‘phone like a flash. Or would he? Suddenly she realised that far from being ignorant of Marina’s tactics, he was actually playing to her tune deliberately. But why?

  ‘And of course, hearing a female voice, you just had to rush out and find for yourself what was going on,’ he was saying to the brunette. ‘Curiosity, dear Marina ... remember what it did to the cat.’

  ‘Then it couldn’t have been much of a cat,’ Marina replied casually. Too casually, Helen thought, envying the woman her style.

  And also her clothing sense, Helen thought, suddenly realising the contrast between her own rather ancient housecoat and Marina’s expensive casual-elegant pant suit. It was time, she thought then, to take herself out of this.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said quietly. ‘I was just getting ready for bed.’

  Marina’s expression dearly — at least to another woman — asked whose bed, but Dane interjected before anything else could be said. ‘Oh, come and have a drink with us first,’ he said. ‘It’s too early for bed, surely.’

  And if it hadn’t been for that questioning look on the other woman’s face, Helen might have refused. But now she wouldn’t. Instead, she determined to make herself the gooseberry just out of spite, because she definitely did not like Marina Cole and knew beyond doubt the feelings were reciprocated.

  ‘All right. I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she said then, and dashed to her room to emerge with her hair combed and wearing a set of pale yellow lounging pyjamas cut just low enough in front to give her a vague advantage over the tailored style of Marina’s outfit.

  Dane hadn’t seen this outfit; she was usually attired in very casual jeans and sweatshirt around the house. But he liked it immediately, she could tell that despite his failure to make any verbal comment.

  Her drink was waiting, and she curled up in a corner of the sofa with it, just close enough to be included in the conversation to follow, but far enough away that she could remain more of an observer than a direct participant if the opportunity offered.

  Marina, with one cat-eyed glance, told Helen she’d have preferred the tattered housecoat, and even more have preferred Helen’s absence from the room, the house, the property and even Tasmania. No question; it was that kind of look.

  ‘The reason I stopped by was not, as you so rudely put it, simply curiosity,’ Marina was saying, one hand busily touching Dane, deliberately establishing a physical intimacy for nobody’s benefit but Helen’s. ‘But to remind you of the party on Saturday. You did promise you’d come, remember. Mother would be so very disappointed if you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘Did I promise? Goodness, Marina, that was months ago ... I can’t really remember,’ Dane was saying. ‘Certainly before I knew that Helen was coming, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, but that doesn’t matter. Of course she must come to the party as well. Plenty of room.’ Marina seemed just slightly condescending for an instant, then confirmed Helen’s suspicion. ‘And there’ll be a few people there her own age, I’m sure, including one or two quite eligible young men.’

  Helen seethed, trying not to show it. But Dane merely laughed, the sound ringing in the now-tense atmosphere.

  ‘Lining dear Helen up with appropriate young men is the last thing I hope to get involved with,’ he chuckled. ‘She’s more than capable of finding her own, thank you very much.’

  ‘Not if you insist on keeping her locked away out here in the scrub,’ Marina replied calmly, but there was a steely glint in those bland cat’s eyes. ‘Unless, of course, that’s the whole idea. Is she ... hiding from something? Or someone?’

  The brunette waited only long enough to have made her point; she didn’t expect an answer and that, too, was clear. ‘Seriously, Dane, what is she doing here?’ Marina asked then, as if the earlier questions had been only jokes. And, Helen thought, as
if she, herself, was incapable of handling direct inquisition.

  ‘I’m just sort of the resident jillaroo,’ she blurted before Dane could reply. ‘You know ... milk the goats, slop the hogs, that sort of thing.’

  Marina never batted an eye. ‘How ... quaint,’ she murmured, not even bothering to glance over as Helen spoke. It was, just in two words, the total put-down, the ultimate in condescension.

  But if Dane noticed, and Helen was sure he must, he ignored that aspect of the comment. ‘Helen understates the situation,’ he said. ‘Actually, she does just about everything around here but write my books for me.’

  And there was something, something barely audible in his inflexion of everything. Something that caused Helen’s heart to tumble like a wounded bird, and Marina Cole’s eyes to narrow in speculation, then widen in ill-disguised fury,

  ‘She sounds utterly perfect,’ the brunette finally said, the words emerging almost in a hiss. ‘I’m hardly surprised, now, that you told me you’d be isolating yourself so you could finish your latest book. Although,’ and she paused dramatically but only for an instant, ‘I’m also rather surprised that you haven’t married her if she’s so perfect.’

  And Dane ... laughed. A great, boisterous, rollicking burst of laughter that caught both women by surprise. Then he spoke, and the words landed like lumps of lead on Helen’s fluttering heart.

  ‘It’s got to be out of the question,’ Dane said. ‘She’s practically family. It would be incestuous.’

  And did he glance at her when he said that final word? Helen thought he might have, but with her own eyes averted as her mind skipped through what he was saying, must say, she couldn’t be certain. Certainly, however, she didn’t need help to interpret the flickering expression of pure relief that flashed across Marina’s beautiful features.

  But Helen, herself, had to speak out. Had to use words to scour the pain from inside her, use words as a defence against the hurt. No matter how much more hurt it caused her.

  ‘If that’s the best kind of story you can dream up, then maybe I should be writing your books for you,’ she scoffed, throwing Dane a dazzling smile. ‘Why don’t you tell Miss Cole the truth, that I’m an unemployed journalist whom you’ve taken pity on for old times’ sake, and that you soothe my conscience by keeping me busy with all sorts of little farm jobs?’

  Helen would have continued, but her throat stuck. Words piled up behind her tongue ... harsh, unkind, untrue words. Defensive words that would only worsen her position. Because really, what was there to say? It was the truth; she was staying here as an object of pity, no more than an old friend being helped over a rough patch in life.

  ‘And speaking of farm jobs, I think now you must excuse me,’ she finally managed to say. ‘The donkeys get up early, and I’ll have to, as well.’

  She was out of the room, fleeing, ashamed of it but unable to handle any other course of action, almost before Dane and his lady friend could reply. It wasn’t until she was safely in her room that Helen could afford to release the pent-up fury of her emotions, cursing silently into a pillow that soaked up words and tears with equal ease.

  When Dane, some time later, saw Marina off and then paused to knock softly on Helen’s door, she pretended not to hear. And when morning arrived, she was out working the donkeys almost before the arrival of the sun, shivering in the cold air but knowing she’d feel even colder inside the house.

  Helen knew very well it hadn’t been Dane’s comments which had so upset her, nor even the dark- haired woman’s condescending attitude. The problem was her own attitude. She was too vulnerable, too easily hurt, too tender.

  But worse was the realisation that her time here was now limited. She couldn’t — mustn’t — stay any longer than was absolutely necessary. Only … where could she go? With no job and no money, there wasn’t a lot of choice except home to mother, and that was simply too horrendous to consider.

  ‘So I’ll have to find a job; that’s all there is to it,’ she muttered, leaning momentarily against the fence and watching the sun glitter against the sea far to the east. ‘I don’t have to be a journalist, although it would be best.’

  And immediately resolved to collect the various weekend papers that Saturday ... all of them. Surely somewhere in Australia there would be a job for her, a means of escape before her involvement with Dane Curtis made escape impossible.

  It was nearly noon, and the day already unseasonably warm, when Helen returned to the house, drawn, in part, by the unmistakable sound of someone splitting firewood. As she rounded the corner of the yard, the sound became louder and she paused, unable to resist the pleasure of watching Dane engrossed in his labour.

  He was stripped to the waist, the sun glistening on a muscular chest and back as he rhythmically swung the splitting axe to slice great rounds of log into neat sections of stove wood.

  Watching him, seeing the economy of effort, the pure mixture of strength and skill, the involved play of muscles and sinew, Helen felt a great emptiness inside her.

  He was, and no denying it, a man of supreme sexual attractiveness with his lithe, thoroughly co-ordinated movements. Not the over-muscled build of a weight-lifter, but the body of a competitive swimmer, where strength and suppleness combined to create beauty.

  And he was, she now realised, a great deal leaner than she remembered, now had all the sedentary softness driven from his body. He was hard and fit and trim … and too desirable by half.

  And also, she discovered very quickly, too observant.

  ‘Are you buying something, or just window-shopping?’ he asked, pausing only long enough to throw her a quick, mildly sarcastic grin. ‘If you’ve nothing better to do than stand around admiring the body beautiful, you might as well get busy stacking some of this wood so I’ve got room to move here.’

  ‘Actually, I was merely wondering how those sedentary writer’s muscles could stand the strain of such heavy work,’ Helen retorted, lying boldly to cover the confusion she felt at having been caught.

  ‘And I suppose you think you could do better? Okay, here,’ he replied, striding over to hand her the heavy, wedge-shaped implement. ‘You reckon you’re so tough, get to it. I’ll just have a smoke, somewhere over here a safe distance away.’

  She had to laugh, although silently and secretively. Dane had, for once, caught himself out. She knew from long childhood experience how to handle this aspect of country life, and although she hadn’t his strength, she knew the tricks of splitting wood. Knew them all, and quickly found she hadn’t forgotten.

  Long before his cigarette was finished, she had honed the old skills and was rending the chunks of log nearly as neatly as he had done. Helen continued at the task, revelling in the work, until Dane finally called to her to stop.

  ‘That’ll do, thank you,’ he finally said. ‘Splitting firewood is my therapy, and if you expect me to sit and watch you do it, then the least you could do is be properly dressed.’

  ‘What’s the matter with the way I’m dressed?’ She had the question asked before his wolfish grin revealed his meaning. And then, just for an instant, she was tempted ... oh, so tempted.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ he cautioned. ‘You’d give Mrs Bowen a shock from which she might never recover. And I’m not sure I could handle it either, so why don’t you go see about some lunch instead.’

  ‘Chauvinist!’ Helen cried. ‘You couldn’t care less if I worked topless or not; you just can’t handle the fact that I can do the work as well as you.’

  ‘Which you wouldn’t be, if you were out here topless,’ he retorted. ‘Or at least, not for long. Now run along, dear Helen, before I show you one of the other uses a piece of firewood can be put to and you have to eat lunch standing up.’

  And he advanced slowly, one hand extended to take the splitting axe from her. But instead of handing it to him, Helen laid the implement down between them, then as quickly grabbed it up again and scampered clockwise around the woodpile,

  Dane grinned, and
it was a wolfish, cunning grin. Then he stooped to pick up a slender wand of scrap wood and advanced upon her again, his intent now beyond question.

  ‘You come near me with that and I’ll drop this axe on your foot,’ Helen warned. ‘I mean it.’

  And she would have, except that to manoeuvre the fifteen-pound splitting axe that quickly was simply beyond her strength and agility. Dane easily evaded her first and only try, then plucked the axe from her fingers and pulled her close against him almost in the same motion.

  He’d dropped the sliver of firewood, too, so that both hands were free to close round her waist, pulling her tight against him in a vice-like grip that she couldn’t oppose.

  ‘You are a naughty child, young Helen,’ he murmured in her ear, but Helen was more aware of the crush of his warm chest against her, of the strong, hot pressure of his loins.

  ‘And you really do deserve a spanking,’ he continued, one hand releasing its grip only long enough to land with a resounding smack on her rump, drawing forth a squeal of surprise, more than outright indignation.

  ‘I have never seen such unmitigated jealousy as you showed last night,’ he continued, following up the comment with yet another smack.

  ‘Childish, ridiculous, quite unprecedented jealousy.’ Smack!

  ‘Particularly from someone who maintains that we don’t have that kind of relationship.’ Smack!

  Helen would have spoken, would have shouted at him now in her indignant rage, but he was holding her too tightly. After every smack at her bottom, he would crush her against him again with both arms, effectively forcing the very air from her lungs, making any attempt at speech impossible.

  And he was angry. Angrier than she was; Helen had no doubts about that. Angry with a cold, deliberate anger that she now realised he’d been taking out on the woodpile. Until she’d arrived. Anger that might have been exhausted against inert wood, but anger that without question had been directed squarely at her. And anger that had only been fanned white-hot by her intrusion.