The Tender Years (14 page)

‘Are you happy with me, Steve?’ something made her ask after she had glanced up into his face.

‘Certainly I’m happy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Surely you have no doubts about that?’

‘You looked—well—sort of dejected a few seconds ago.’

‘I suppose I’m troubled about the divorce and how long it really will take to go through. Two years is the maximum but it could be through a lot sooner than that.’ He smiled lovingly at her. ‘And then, darling, you’ll have to decide whether or not you want to burn your boats and marry me.’

‘I want to marry you,’ she assured him seriously, ‘but I don’t want to live with you beforehand.’

‘Why?’ he asked swiftly and bluntly. ‘What’s wrong in it?’ He was staring into her face, that curious expression in his eyes again. ‘It’s Luke, isn’t it?’

She nodded her head. ‘Let’s sit down again,’ she said and wondered why the nearness of his body didn’t thrill her any more.

She thought about Greta, and the way she stormed when she knew that she, Christine, was going to dine with Steve. One would almost have believed she was jealous.

And where there was jealousy there was love. . . .

‘Sometimes in a marriage,’ she said, watching his face intently, ‘people have to adjust, and it takes time,’ Not a muscle of his face moved to give her a clue to his feelings or emotions. ‘You’re suggesting that Greta and I haven’t tried?’

Tried?

‘I suppose that was what I mean,’ she admitted, but went on to say, ‘It seems absurd, though, that you and she should have to try after only six months of marriage.’

‘We ought never to have married in the first place. I know that now. Greta gets bored far too easily.’ He paused a moment in thought. ‘Perhaps I’m too old for her too.’

‘Too?’

‘Well, most people would say I’m far too old for you. wouldn’t they? You’re not nineteen yet— All right, we’ll say you are,’ he amended on noting her expression. ‘You’re nineteen and I’m thirty-five, almost thirty-six. You’ll be in the prime of life when I’m on my way to sixty—’

‘Oh, stop!’ she cried, ‘It’s
now
that matters, Steve! Why, we could both be killed in an accident, dying together. I don’t want to think of age!’

‘No, you don’t want to face realities, do you?’ His voice was tender, reminding her of Luke in his most attractive mood. ‘You’re so young, Christine, younger than your age.’

‘Luke always says that.’

‘Luke is right—but then he’s always right when it’s anything concerning you.’

‘He’s been my mainstay for many years,’ she murmured reflectively.

‘When he asked you to marry him why didn’t you think seriously about it?’

She stared at him incredulously, i’m in love with you,’ she said simply.

‘But there’s a strong bond between you and Luke, isn’t there?’

They were at the table again and the waiter was about to serve the dessert course. Christine said when he had gone, ‘You don’t have any doubts about my love for you, do you, Steve?’

He paused a moment before answering, ‘I’d feel much happier if I could be sure you’d cut off completely from Luke. But you’ve said you don’t want to do that.’

She shook her head, confusion sweeping over her again. All was well lost for love it was said . . . and yet, madly in love as she was with Steve, she knew this compelling desire to keep Luke’s friendship and affection. For to lose them would be catastrophe.

She found herself changing the subject abruptly, and the question of Luke was not mentioned again during the evening.

Christine was in the swimming pool when Luke returned from his visit to Nassau. She was unaware of him at first and gave a little startled cry when, on glancing up, she saw him standing there by the side, watching her smooth and supple movements in the water. She came to the side; his hand was there, warm and strong, to help her out. She gave a springing jump and landed against him unintentionally. His arms were swift, his intention plain. She felt his mouth on hers, his hands spreading over her near-naked body. The fact that it was wet, that her hair was streaming, did not seem to affect him in the least.

‘You’re beautiful!’ he murmured after he had kissed her. His hand was clenched about her hair and she felt the water trickling down her back, diminishing the warmth of the sun.

‘You came back early,’ she remarked, wondering why she had accepted his kiss and his caresses so calmly and without being embarrassed by them. Changes . . . Physical closeness . . . She recalled with startling clarity her thoughts on the evening she and Steve had dined at the Captain’s Charthouse. She had wondered then if there was a physical attraction that was drawing her closer to him. It was difficult to dismiss the possibility when he was holding her like this, his hands possessive, his whole manner towards her one of mastery. He seemed so confident of her docility, almost as if she were his slave. A smile curved her lips at the idea and he was bound to notice.

‘Why the smile, my Chris?’ His own smile broadened to betray the sensual quality of his mouth. ‘What’s amusing you, my dear?’

‘I was thinking,’ she answered spontaneously and with the merest hint of coquetry, which was unintentional, ‘that I might be your slave the way you act with me—I mean, holding me like this just as if you have a right to do so.’

‘My slave?’ He seemed amused. ‘If you were my slave I would then be able to do exactly as I like with you.’

Her eyes flew open. Colour swept into her face as she felt instinctively that there was some subtle meaning to his words. She tried to draw away, shy with him and more confused than ever. His hold was strong and dominating. She stared into those tawny eyes which now held that hint of metal in their depths, eyes that were alert and penetrating, and they compelled her to lower her own.

‘I—I had better go in and—g-get dressed,’ she stammered, attempting once again to free herself from his hold.

‘Are you glad I came back early, Chris?’ His question came slowly and distinctly, as though he were mentally stressing it, attaching much importance to it, or, perhaps, to her answer.

She tried to define the tone of his voice and felt sure that although the mockery was there it could not possibly be the sort of nervous mockery which it appeared to be. She answered with perfect truth, ‘Yes, Luke, I am glad.’ And yet she had told Steve that she had had enough of being told what and what not to do. Now that Luke was back he was sure to be giving her orders and making sure she obeyed them.

‘I’m gratified that you want me home again.’ Luke held her from him to allow his eyes to rove all over her slender body, its skin a lovely honey-bronze colour and smooth as silk. She saw him swallow hard, as if his throat were hurting; she saw the wild pulsation of a nerve against the bone of his cheek. His eyes became fixed on the tawny rounds of her breasts, as if he were fascinated by their firm, enticing thrusts. His glance flickered to meet her eyes fleetingly before they fell again to rest on the delightful swell of her stomach . . . and then she felt his eyes burning through the scanty covering lower down and she had the sensation of his being able to strip it away without any trouble at all. She coloured again but knew the distinct sensation of response awakening in her.

She was sensually enjoying the examination he was giving her!

‘I really ought to get dressed,’ she managed weakly.

‘Is there any need?’ with a half-amused lift of one eyebrow, ‘It isn’t as if you’re likely to catch cold, is it?’

The sun was hot and high in the clear azure sky and if Luke had not appeared she would have relaxed on the pool patio in a lounger for a while after coming out of the water. But now she felt she must insist on getting dressed. Luke did not seem to be troubled that the maid he had brought with him from the hotel might be watching them from one of the wide picture windows that faced the swimming pool. In fact, nothing seemed to be interesting him at this moment except her body.

‘I flattered you,’ he reminded her with faint satire. ‘Are you immune to male flattery?’

She darted him a glance. Was there some subtle reference here to Steve? Was he asking if she were flattered by
his
admiration?

‘I’m not immune,’ she admitted. ‘But you, Luke . . . you are changing towards me. . . .’ Words could not be formed beyond this because she had no idea what she wanted to say.

‘Yes,’ he returned, and now his voice was faintly brusque. ‘I am changing towards you.’

Suddenly she was frowning at an idea that had flashed into her brain. Could it be that Luke would like to have an affair with her? She knew he had had several affairs, and those that knew about this used to smile and say it was a wonder he wasn’t a rake altogether, seeing how eagerly the women ran after him. Christine’s eyes swept over him now and she had the impression of lithe strength and vigour, of a certain sensuality about him that pronounced him all male . . . and virile. . . .

He had been saying recently that he wanted her to grow up. She was recalling that incident when he had taken her to his home the night of the wedding. He had certainly had intentions of making love to her, and she had to admit that he would have succeeded but for the intervention of his Jamaican manservant.

So he was attracted to her physically. Looking back on several recent happenings she realised she ought to have known before now. He had wanted to marry her, telling Arthur that it would be a good idea. He desired her body but what of his tenderness through the years, his concern for her and the security she always felt because of his sustained interest in her? Was his heart involved? She shook her head, telling herself that if he loved her he would certainly have told her so. But perhaps he was too proud, aware as he was that she loved someone else. She thrust the idea from her; she did not want him to be in love with her and suffer what she had suffered when Steve married someone else. No, it would be crucifying for her to give Luke that kind of pain!

‘I’m definitely going in,’ she stated and, taking him by surprise, she ran into the bungalow and, entering her room, she shut the door with an unnecessary little bang.

That evening they arranged to dine at the hotel, at a table which Luke always had reserved for him, right away in a corner where the vague and vast expanse of the golf course was seen through one window and the dark satin sheen of the sea from the other. A candle flickered in its tall red chimney and the flowers in the silver vase were orchids. Christine, radiant in black Laurent pants and a sequin-trimmed evening blouse with a mandarin collar and long full sleeves gathered into wide tight cuffs fastened with tiny gold-coloured buttons. Her hair shone and the honey tones seemed to be accentuated by the light from the candle. Luke was superbly dressed in a loose-fitting white blouson jacket over a shirt of subtle green—almost the colour of hibiscus leaves. His dark hair, thick and strong, waved attractively at the front, above a wide, faintly lined forehead. So distinguished he looked!—with that handsome face which even the scar seemed to enhance at times like this when his mood was serene and settled. Only when he was angry did the scar seem to rise and form a crimson ridge against the deep mahogany of his skin. He watched her with interest and his smile was slow, lifting the sensuous mouth at one comer only.

‘A cent for them,’ he said in some amusement.

‘I just like looking,’ she shot back at him with the sort of satire
she
was accustomed to hearing from
him
.

‘Many thanks. I’m flattered.’

She laughed and thought: why am I always so happy with Luke when I love Steve? And suddenly she felt herself to be trapped like a captive between two forces, both of equal power, but in very different ways, and that if she failed to discover the escape route from the fortress of one of them, she would be lost forever. She had the strange and inexplicable sensation of straining to hear a voice from within that would show her the way to her own fulfilment. But the voice was an elusive whisper which faded to silence before she could grasp its meaning.

‘You’re being sarcastic with me again,’ she accused at length.

‘You imagine things, my child.’

Child . . .

‘It’s my birthday on Thursday.’

‘I haven’t forgotten.’

‘Oh—I didn’t mean—that is—’

‘I hope you would be upset if I should allow your birthday to pass without giving you some token of my esteem.’

‘You’ve remembered it for eight years,’ she said and her voice was as tender as the glance she sent him.

‘A lifetime to you?’ He quirked an eyebrow as a glimmer of amusement entered his eyes.

‘It’s a long time, certainly.’ Luke was being handed the wine list and she added when he did not speak, ‘A year from now and my teens will be behind me.’

‘And with them the tender years . . .’ He might have been speaking to himself, she thought, for he seemed to be totally absorbed in choosing a suitable wine to go with the food they had just ordered. ‘What then, I wonder?’

A year from now. Steve could be free. Her thoughts sped on to the future when she was Steve’s wife; she endeavoured to create an experience in her mind but all was nebulous and she was back to mere thoughts again. The craving for the untold delights which only Steve could give her seemed to have become a lukewarm desire that in any case would never be fulfilled.

Sombre musings—she tried to dismiss them and to be optimistic about the future. To change the subject seemed to be the most sensible thing to do. ‘Have you heard anything of Arthur?’ She had waited until Luke had made his choice and then ordered the wine.

‘I phoned Cassia Lodge twice but there was no reply.’

‘Steve said he wasn’t living there when—’ Too late she broke off, blushing hotly under Luke’s interrogating stare. She hadn’t mentioned Steve’s visit to the island when Luke asked her how she had been spending her time.

‘When did you last see Steve, Christine?’ His tone had sharpened pointedly. His manner was stem and yet withdrawn, aloof, but yet he was plainly interested in her reply.