The Silver Falcon (21 page)

‘Didn't comment means I wasn't asked – I know these bastards, they're clever enough not to put words into someone's mouth.'

He had been friendly to Tim, but she detected hostility on both sides. He had asked her, pointedly, to see him alone, and there was nothing she could do but bring him up to her suite. He took the newspaper away from her and threw it into the corner. His eyes were narrow and very blue; she felt her pulse race, stupidly and without excuse, as he came near to her. He put his hands on her shoulders and she felt him move closer to her. Tim and the afternoon, full of Irish ease and casual pleasure, faded out of focus. He bent and touched her mouth. Lightly at first and then insistently, demanding.

‘Why did you go without telling me?' he said. His hand stroked the back of her neck; she could feel his thigh muscles pressing against her. ‘Why didn't you ask me to come –' He kissed her and she couldn't answer.

‘That bloody newspaper,' he murmured. It was an extraordinary feeling; it reminded her suddenly of the panic that engulfed her when she was swimming under water in Barbados, with the hull of the boat above her and no air to breathe. But this was different; it was the panic of desire that wants fulfilment and will not count the cost, the urgent cry for love that longs to be swept away and drown and sink.…

‘I love you,' he said. His hands were moving on her, unfastening her dress. There was no clumsiness; he knew how to open women's clothes.

‘I love you.' It was like an incantation. Repeated, accompanied by the powerful sexual stimulus of his kisses and his touch. She could feel a tremor in his body; it wasn't only his desire that dominated. And then the question.

‘You love me, Isabel – you love me, don't you?'

She didn't know the answer. Her body cried yes, yes, take me, hold me, take me to bed. But something resisted. Something held back as the pull under water increased. Charles, from the grave. Don't trust him. Don't ever, ever trust him.… She drew away from him.

‘Richard – we've got to stop. Before we make fools of ourselves.'

He looked down at her; she pulled her dress into place.

‘You can't get away, can you?' he said. ‘You can't trust yourself; he owns you, Isabel. Stamped and labelled. Charles Schriber's property; don't touch. I want to marry you. What do you say to that?'

‘I asked you for time,' she said slowly.

‘All right,' he said. ‘But how much time – how long do you need to make up your mind to live your own life?'

She felt shaken and confused. Marriage. It was the last thing she had thought of; surely the last thing in the world he had in mind.…

‘Is it Ryan?' the question was asked quietly; she had turned away from him.

‘No,' Isabel answered. ‘It's nothing to do with Tim. Or anyone else. I want to be sure what I'm doing.'

She heard him move behind her; he kissed the side of her neck.

‘How much time?' he repeated. ‘I'm not good at waiting.'

‘After the Derby,' she said. ‘After I've kept my promise to Charles.' She was expecting a reaction. None came and she couldn't see his face.

‘You've decided to run the horse then?' He sounded quite unmoved. His hands had been caressing her shoulders; they were still but that was all. She turned and faced him; she felt suddenly distressed.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I couldn't pull out of it. Charles left Tim a lot of money if the horse won. I've met his family and seen his home; it's up for sale – they desperately need the money. And there's Nigel too. It wouldn't be fair to either of them. Apart from Charles. I know you feel so hurt and bitter, Richard, and I wish I could have done what you asked. But it wouldn't have been right.'

He showed no disappointment and he didn't try to argue. He smiled at her and kissed her lightly. ‘A woman of determined character and strong moral principles. I'm going to have a hell of a life with you, I can see that!'

She was suddenly so relieved at his acceptance that she slid her arms round his neck and kissed him on the mouth. It lasted a long time. ‘If crossing me up has this effect on you,' he murmured, ‘you'd better make a habit of it –'

They had dinner together in her suite; it was as if some inner tension between them had been finally broken. Richard didn't mention the Falcon again; she told him, hesitantly and with a little defiance, that she had bought the chestnut colt. He laughed at her; she had never seen him in such a happy mood.

‘You're a hopeless case. I bet they robbed you blind; Ryan took his share, and passed some on to Foster, and you paid about 15000 over the odds. You should have taken me with you!'

‘It's a beautiful colt,' she said. ‘I really fell in love with it. And afterwards I kept thinking how you'd feel about it. I thought you'd accuse me of living in Charles's shadow, and all the other charming things you say to me.'

‘But it didn't stop you,' he remarked.

‘No. I made up my own mind. There was something about the little colt – not so little either – but it was like a beautiful child. And very gentle. I just had to have him. Just for myself. Tim said he was a very good buy and all the rest of it, but even if he hadn't liked him, I wouldn't have changed my mind. I feel he's really mine.'

‘I can see the signs,' he mocked her. ‘You're getting the bug in a big way. Not only am I going to be bullied into moral reformation, but I'm going to have to live with horses.' He leaned across and kissed her.

‘I feel closer to you than I've ever done,' Isabel said suddenly. ‘What's happened to us?'

‘We've come to terms with each other,' he said. ‘There's been a battle going on between us. Now, somehow, it's over. I wanted you to do something for reasons very personal to me. You wouldn't do it and I've accepted that. End of the battle.'

Isabel looked up at him. ‘Does that mean I've won?'

He shook his head. He took the coffee cup out of her hand and put it on the side table. Then he pushed the table away. He put his arms round her firmly.

‘No, Isabel,' he said. ‘It means you've lost.'

When Isabel woke it was with a sense of panic. She had been dreaming, a confused and anxious journey into the past, with Charles alive again and changing into her own father, accusing her of something which she hadn't done. She thought she was at Beaumont in the bedroom they shared together when she first opened her eyes; her heart was beating fast and she felt out of breath as if she had been running. And she had, running with feet that were weighted down, from something or someone whose steps were coming closer all the time. She sat up, frightened for a few seconds at the unfamiliar room. It was semi-dark with the curtains badly drawn and she didn't recognize the hotel bedroom. It wasn't Beaumont; it wasn't the handsome room with the big windows and the view over the paddocks where Charles's mares and foals were grazing in the summer months. It was a hired room in a hotel three thousand miles away from her home in Kentucky, and the man who had spent the night in it with her had gone.

She sat back against the pillows; the bed was cold. He must have left her very early. When at last she slept it had been very deep. The sleep of emotional and physical exhaustion; there were moments during the night when she had cried, whether from happiness or the intensity of their experience, she didn't know. She only knew, waking in the impersonal room, that Richard had indeed won the battle. If this was love then she had never known even the imitation of it with Charles Schriber. He had been virile and experienced, but the underlying egotism of their sex life was impossible to ignore now that she had made love to Richard. She wished that he had waited; it chilled her to find the bed empty, the covers smoothed into place. It was almost as if he had been a figment of her own imagination. Women were supposed to wake in a state of cat-like sensuality after such a night; instead every nerve ending was alive, and the sense of apprehension characterized by the anxiety dream was still with her. She had committed herself to him, and now there was no going back. No refuge with Tim, no hiding place in her life with Charles. Her own instinct had been so strong; delay, wait, try to see clearly. But it hadn't stopped her. Now they were lovers, and the word marriage hung in the air. A total commitment. It would have been easier if she had found him beside her, if he had been there to confirm with tenderness what he had expressed in passion. She got up and pulled back the curtains. It was a grey, cloudy Dublin day, cold and unwelcoming. The room was centrally heated but she shivered. Then the telephone rang. It was past eight o'clock. She sat on the bed, reached for the receiver and prayed that she wouldn't hear Tim's friendly voice.

‘Get up, darling,' Richard said. ‘It's raining and I want to go for a walk.'

She leaned against the pillows. ‘Give me fifteen minutes.' She looked at the window and smiled. In Ireland, nobody worried about the rain. With their genius for dignifying the drab, they called it angel's tears.

‘I'll knock on the door,' he said. ‘But you'd better be dressed or we won't do much walking.'

MacNeil had booked Andrew Graham into his hotel. He had arrived after a night flight and gone straight to bed; he found the time change difficult and prescribed himself a sleeping pill and slept through the jet lag. MacNeil could wait. He needed to be fully alert when he saw him. He needed the detective's advice on what should be done. He had brought sufficient clothes to last him for a couple of weeks' stay.

Sixteen hours later he woke up, ordered himself a breakfast of ham and eggs and coffee, and rang through to MacNeil. He was put through to reception. A woman's voice, shrill and staccato to his Southern ears, informed him that Mr MacNeil had left a message for any caller, that he had gone to Dublin for a few days and could be contacted at a Dublin telephone number. Graham swore, and asked for the number. In the process of being reconnected to the switchboard, he was cut off. As he was dialling again, his breakfast arrived. They had forgotten the orange juice. The eggs looked up at him reproachfully from a mean sliver of ham. He cursed again, at himself this time, for not going to a first-class hotel; then he remembered how much the trip was costing. How much MacNeil was costing. He ate the breakfast, sipped the coffee, which was tepid and too strong, and put through a call to MacNeil on the Dublin number. It was a hotel, and it took fully five minutes while the time signal pipped in his ear, to discover that MacNeil had checked out a few minutes ago. But, yes, he had left a message. If a Doctor Graham called, he would be in London and would join him for lunch. Andrew put the breakfast tray on the dressing table, looked out at the traffic pouring down below through Kensington High Street and decided to spend the morning walking through the park opposite.

By twelve thirty he was sitting in the hotel lounge waiting for MacNeil.

‘Tim knows,' Richard said. They were sitting together in the Aer Lingus jet; Ryan and Nigel Foster were two rows in front of them.

‘How can he?' Isabel asked.

Richard grinned at her. ‘You've got a certain look about you, Mrs Schriber. He's no fool.'

‘Stop being so pleased with yourself,' she said. She dug her elbow into his side. ‘I think you're imagining it.'

‘I'm not imagining the way he glares at me,' Richard retorted. ‘He's lost out and knows it. He must be kicking himself – rushing you over to Ireland, taking you round the old family home and introducing you to the folks – he must have thought he'd got it made! You never told me – did he make a pass?'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘He didn't. Stop crowing, Richard. I'm very fond of him.'

‘I feel like crowing. No wonder the old bastard was so crazy about you. It's a very rare gift, darling, to make a man feel this good! When are you going to marry me?'

‘I haven't said anything about marrying anyone,' Isabel said. ‘I think you'd make a rotten husband. I like you as you are.'

‘I'd make a jealous husband,' he said. ‘Very jealous. There won't be any Tim Ryans sniffing around. I've thought of something to do while you're in France. What sort of a ring do you want – diamonds or a coloured stone?'

‘Neither,' Isabel said. ‘Stop rushing me. Why don't you come to Paris and see the Falcon run?'

‘Because I'd rather look for something nice for you,' he said. ‘Racing bores hell out of me. I might have an off-course bet on him. Just to show you I'm not prejudiced. Take that wedding ring off and give it to me; I need it for the ring size.' He held her hand and started working the ring over her knuckle. Isabel tried to clench her finger. The ring was a little loose and he had slipped it off before she could stop him. He held it and looked at it for a moment. There was a slight smile on his lips but his eyes were half closed as if he were concentrating on something.

‘Richard, give it back,' she said. ‘Please. I don't want an engagement ring or anything like that. Give me my ring.'

‘Is it inscribed?' he said. ‘I can't see.'

‘No,' Isabel said. She held out her hand. ‘Please,' she said again. He put it on her palm; it was a plain platinum band.

‘My mother's was gold,' he said. He pressed the button for the steward. ‘I think I'll have a Scotch.'

‘Don't,' Isabel said. ‘It's only a few minutes till we land.' She put the ring on, and then slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Come to Paris with me,' she said. ‘It's only a couple of days.' He turned and smiled at her.

‘Do you know what I'd really like?' he said. ‘Something that may surprise you.'

‘Tell me.' He had taken her hand and was holding it.

‘I'd like to borrow your house for the two days,' he said. ‘I've never seen it, and I'd like to get out of the flat. Would you lend it to me?'