The Tender Years (16 page)

‘It’s not Steve this time, Luke.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s just that I feel emotional. I always do when we have a quarrel. Do you remember, Luke, there was a time when you and I never had a cross word?’

‘I remember.’ The suggestion of a smile touched the firm outline of his mouth. ‘But things were rather different then. You regarded me in the light of an uncle, if I remember correctly—or was it a guardian you wanted me to be?’

She managed a shaky laugh and moved closer to him. She craved the comfort of his arms about her, as they had been about her so many times before.

‘We’ve changed towards one another,’ she reflected. ‘I want you as a friend now.’ She had managed to get as close as she could but his hands were still holding hers, and so his arms did not come around her. ‘Why should we have disagreements just because of this change?’ she wanted to know.

‘You’ll understand when you take the trouble to think more deeply about it.’ He drew her close and kissed her on the lips. ‘I’ll get back in time to take you out to dinner,’ he promised a moment later. ‘Happy now?’

‘Much happier,’ she breathed. ‘And Thursday, Luke? We’ve always been together on my birthday, haven’t we?’ She was recalling all the other birthdays when Arthur had taken them all out and Luke was invited every time. ‘Arthur always remembered, didn’t he? I don’t mean my birthday but Loreen’s and Greta’s too. He never once failed to take us out.’

‘Those days are gone, dear,’ he said gently, ‘so it’s best to forget them.’

And Steve, he meant as well—yes, forget Steve because he’s not for you. Christine looked up into his face and knew her deductions were correct. She snuggled close and Steve was forgotten in the pleasure of this making up.

‘Kiss me again, Luke,’ she asked him shyly. ‘I’m very sorry for making you angry.’

‘We can forget that too,’ he decided gruffly, and obliged her by giving her the kiss she had asked for. But this time it was by no means so gentle or restrained. His mouth on hers was moist and mobile and sensuously demanding. She felt the tenseness of the past few hours leaving her and the crosscurrents of dissension had given way to this soothing languor of peace and pleasure.

There was certainly something deep and strong between Luke and herself, always had been from that moment when she had gone to him and wept upon his breast.

‘Chris,’ he warned softly against her cheek, ‘you’re trying me in a very different way now.’

But she yearned for comfort, for the full assurance that she had not damaged their relationship. She snuggled close and let her arms creep up and around his neck, shyly caressing his nape and thrilling to the knowledge that she was giving him pleasure. For Christine there was a magical sensitivity to the tender caress of Luke’s hands which forced a response in the willing reciprocation of her slender body to the masterful demands of his. She was learning fast, as through her innocence there filtered the knowledge of physical love. A great wave of tenderness flowed into every cell of her body when, freeing one smooth round breast without her being aware of the gentle, tender manipulation of her clothes, Luke spread his fingers around it before taking the little bud and raising it to a peak of desire. Quivers thrilled through her in rapturous repetition as she arched her curves to the masculine hardness of his long and sinewed frame. He was her master, doing what he liked with her, taking his fill of her beauty, caressing every tender curve of her body with infinite tenderness and yet with that innate arrogance which was so much a part of him. She had surrendered and therefore she should be subjected totally. She felt small and helpless . . . and very safe, here in his strong arms, taking her pleasure and giving in return.

‘Chris,’ he groaned in low and husky tones, ‘Chris ... I must have you. . . .’ His hands moved as if freed altogether from the small amount of restraint he had been putting on them, and ecstasy ripped through her as she felt the warmth on her stomach, the bare flesh tingling as a fever of desire took possession of her mind. She had learned that he was an experienced lover, that it was his tender expertise that had aroused her to this point where return was unthinkable. His other hand slid down her back, possessive and warm beneath her clothes; his fingers curved and she was lifted up into his arms. There was no John to thwart Luke’s intentions this time, she thought contentedly as she let her head fall onto a broad and welcome shoulder. She slid her hand into his coat, her pulses throbbing in sympathy with the shudder coursing through him.

Luke carried her to the room she occupied and laid her on the bed. He stood above her, fascinatedly watching the rise and fall of her breasts, the gentle swell of her stomach, the trembling mobility of the lovely lips. Her eyes were wide and trusting and a small hand lifted to find itself a home in his. He squeezed it, then, bending, raised it to his lips, his gaze all tenderness, and there was a small throbbing movement in the scar that Christine had never noticed before. He was taking his coat off, and then unbuttoning his shirt, and a shyness came over her because she wondered if she ought to be undressing too. She sat up but he shook his head.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said, reading her mind.

He would do it. Undress her after he himself was naked. Her heart jerked with unwanted nervousness and she was aware of a little access of palpitation.

Then, as if a flash of lightning had entered the deep recesses of her mind to let in the light, she was seeing Steve, the man she loved and wanted to marry! He’d been forgotten completely! Just as if he had never even existed!

She sat upright and drew her skirt down over her legs, then she slid off the bed.

Pale and trembling she looked up at him, aware of the bronzed chest with its covering of dark, masculine hair.

‘I can’t,’ she faltered. ‘Steve ... I l-love Steve. . .’

She was weeping into her hands as she heard the harsh and scornful words spoken through a surge of quivering anger.

‘Steve! You could think of him at a time like this? What kind of a girl are you?’ His mouth was curved contemptuously when at last she withdrew her hands and looked up at him. He was slowly buttoning up his shirt. She was overwhelmed with guilt and shame . . . but the sensation that seemed to be rising over all else was that of her mind fumbling through a mist of uncertainty. And suddenly, with a shock of enlightenment, she heard herself say, just as the door banged with unnecessary violence behind Luke, ‘It’s you. . . .’ in quivering wonderment, ‘you, dearest Luke, and not Steve at all . . . you were so right ... it was only infatuation.’

Her tear-dimmed eyes were fixed on the door; she was willing him to come back, but she caught her underlip between her teeth as she heard the loud click of his bedroom door further along the passage. Should she go to him and confess her love? The instinct was strong, compelling, but doubts were there too because she had no proof that
he
was in love with
her
. The idea that he loved her had been born but surely if he did love her he would have said so before now? Christine knew her mind was travelling in unprofitable circles, for she had already been through all this and reached the conclusion that Luke would never confess his love while she was infatuated with another man.

A sigh escaped her as she decided not to go to him. She would feel shamed and humiliated if, going to him and offering herself, he should not only tell her he didn’t return her love, but he would betray deep pity and concern that she had given her heart where it was not wanted.

What a fool she had been all this time, caring so deeply for Luke and yet not realising it was love she felt for him. She had been steeped in the conviction that Steve was the man she loved and that life would only be complete if, now that his marriage had broken up, she and he could come together.

What a disaster that would have been! For she would have soon discovered that it was Luke she truly loved.

How wise he was. And she had condemned him as being dictatorial and officious because he disapproved of her association with Steve.

What of Steve’s reaction when she told him she was in love with Luke? But would she tell him? It would be embarrassing to make the confession and discover that her love was unrequited. No, she would tell Steve only when she was sure that Luke cared, that he wanted to marry her.

Thinking back and recapturing memories and certain allusions made at various times by Luke, Christine felt optimistic and was looking forward to seeing him at breakfast the following morning. She would find some way of discovering whether he returned her love or not.

Anna, the maid, was in the breakfast room when Christine entered. She smiled and said, ‘Good morning, miss. Are you having breakfast here or on the patio?’

‘Here . . .’ Christine’s voice faded as she saw the one place set. Had Luke set out already to have the confrontation with Steve?

‘Where is Mr. Luke?’

‘He said to tell you he’s gone to Miami and doesn’t know when he’ll be back, but he thinks he might be away a week.’

‘Miami?’ A week . . . The colour ebbed from Christine’s face. ‘He—he gave the name of the—hotel where he’s staying?’ Was he staying at an hotel? Christine felt he would be staying with Clarice.

‘No, miss. He was in a hurry to catch a plane and just left the message I have given you.’ She paused a moment, looking curiously at her. ‘You’ll have breakfast here?’

‘Yes—er—no, I’m not hungry, Anna, thank you.’

‘But—’

‘I’ll have a cup of coffee on the patio, please.’ She turned and went out to the sunlit patio, seeing nothing of the beauty—the flaring hibiscus bushes brilliant in the sun’s slanting rays, the oleanders and opulent cactus flowers, the anthurium lilies and the great mass of other exotic flowers occupying the borders running alongside the pool patio, while the pool itself was clear and blue and she knew it would be warm and silky if she were to decide on a swim. But she had no wish to swim with this weight of depression on her, with this sensation of knots twisting in the pit of her stomach. She was frightened! She felt almost physically ill with the fear that she had lost Luke forever. He had gone to Clarice, the girl Greta had spoken about a girl whose beauty would have an attraction for any man.

The coffee arrived but it was like bitter aloes in her mouth and she left it almost untouched. Restless and weighed down by misery, she got up and paced about, uncaring if Anna were watching from one of the windows.

‘I can’t stay here!’ she whispered chokingly.
‘I can’t!’
Yet where could she go? Luke had brought her here to Grand Bahama Island in order to keep her away from Steve, had done it for her own good, but he could not have visualised a situation like this to occur, where she was obviously going to be all alone on her birthday, alone and more unhappy than she had ever been in the whole of her life.

She went out and strolled around the International Market in Freeport, seeing nothing of all the glamour, feeling nothing of the atmosphere that had previously been so attractive to her. She did not even feel the warmth of the sun on her bare back and arms—in fact, she felt cold, icy cold.

She was crying, and stumbled; someone caught her and steadied her. She thanked them and moved away, not even knowing if it was a man or a woman.

At lunch time she was still walking, this time having reached the grounds of Luke’s hotel. She remembered the time when Clarice was here and she, Christine, had not liked the idea of the intimacy between the two as they swam together in the pool, then sat on the side, close together.

‘Why didn’t I know then that it was jealousy I felt!’ she quivered, tears starting to her eyes again. She became more and more filled with self-pity as the hours wore on. Her birthday coming and no one cared—not Arthur nor Greta, and certainly not Loreen, who, these days, cared for no one except the man who was her lover. Even Steve hadn’t tried to get in touch lately—but he couldn’t very well phone her when she was living in the house of a man who objected strongly to the friendship.

Desolate and with her feet dragging, she made her way back to the bungalow. Her eyes lighted on the phone as soon as she entered the hall and she decided to phone Steve. What would she say to him, though? She shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter what she said so long as she had someone to speak to, just for a few minutes in order to relieve this monotony.

There was no reply from his parents’ house and because she just had to phone somebody she decided to ring Arthur. But it was Steve who answered the phone.

‘Oh—well—Christine,’ he replied awkwardly after she had greeted him. ‘How are you?’

‘Okay,’ she answered casually, and then after a tiny pause, ‘I didn’t expect you to be at Cassia Lodge.’

‘I’m living here—for the present, of course.’

‘You and Greta have made up your quarrel?’ She supposed her voice must have sounded flat to him but it hadn’t been intentional.

‘I’m sorry, Christine. I feel the rottenest sort of heel—the way I led you to believe—’

He broke off and there was a tense moment of silence before Christine said, ‘Don’t apologise, Steve. We both made a mistake.’ Her voice was hard and curt. ‘I take it you and Greta are all right again?’ She was glad of course, but for all that she could not soften her voice even though she tried. ‘I hope you can make a go of it this time.’

‘Christine,’ he said in a voice gruff with contrition, ‘I’m so sorry, dear. You’re trying to take it well and I wish I were there with you, just to make it easier for you—’

‘Steve,’ she broke in quietly, ‘I have asked you not to apologise. You see, there’s no need. I am not “trying to take it well” as you say, because I’ve no need to do so. I never loved you, Steve,’ she went on with slight emphasis. ‘Luke always said it was infatuation and he was right.’

‘When did you make the discovery?’ he enquired interestedly.