The Tender Years (4 page)

‘I’ll eat it, but afterwards ... I want to go to your house, Luke, not my own.’

‘My house? You can’t do that and you know it.’ He stopped and drew an exasperated breath. ‘Why didn’t I stop you after the first glass? Hurry up and we’ll go,’ he said roughly. ‘You’re not having a dessert so you can forget your crepe suzette for this time.’ He watched her profile as she turned her head in a petulant action meant to annoy him. His patience was becoming exhausted and he could have slapped her if they hadn’t been here, in the restaurant. Yet in fairness he had to admit that he was mainly to blame; he’d had no need to allow her a second glass of wine, and then another half a glass. But she had seemed so forlorn, so caught in the net of her own dejection, that he had turned a blind eye to the effect the wine was having on her. And now she was much worse than he had at first believed; he wondered if he dare take her home—not that he feared the anger of her father. No, it was her mother he was worried about, Loreen, who had never shown any deep affection for the daughter of her husband’s cousin twice removed. She had agreed to take her because at that time she was in love with Arthur, but now . . .No, not only now but for about five years . . . Luke had said he had no proof of Loreen’s infidelity because he hadn’t been able to betray a confidence, the confidence of the woman’s husband himself. For Arthur had told Luke some time ago of the collapse of his marriage, but had said he would never agree to a divorce. And in fact Loreen did not want one; she had the best of both worlds—a lover and a husband, this latter providing all the luxury to which she had become used and without which she could never exist.

‘I want my crepe suzette!’ Christine’s pettish voice broke his musings and he looked at her across the table, noticing again her flushed face, the disconsolate droop of her mouth. If she were to be scolded tonight by her mother, there was no guessing what the result would be. Christine could run away—anywhere. She could in her present state of mind act irrationally and Luke was not allowing that to happen.

But it took him some considerable time to make a decision. It was not easy but he knew it was for the best. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and rose from the table. ‘I’ll not be long.’

She watched him go, then beckoned to the waiter. ‘More wine please,’ she said and her glass was filled up. She knew this was all wrong, but she felt reckless. Her head was fight and it made her forget her disappointment. More important, it made her forget that Steve and Greta would be in their hotel room by now. Forget? No, but at least the picture was vague; she could not see them getting into bed and making love.

‘More wine,’ she ordered after draining her glass. ‘It’s very good.’

The waiter was troubled; he glanced around for her companion. ‘Perhaps, miss, you should wait.’

‘What for? Fill my glass, please.’

With a sigh of resignation he did as she bade him, shaking his head as he watched her drink. Arthur Mead’s daughter had never drunk much at all on her previous visits here, he thought.

Luke, meanwhile, had managed to get in touch with Arthur on the telephone. He explained that he and Christine had been wining and dining rather too well, blaming himself for the way Christine was. ‘I know it’s highly irregular,’ he went on, ‘but I feel it would be best for the child if I took her home to my place and let my maid, Janet, take care of her. I feel she’ll be better able to face Loreen in the morning.’

‘Is she drunk?’ demanded Arthur angrily.

‘By no means,’ hurriedly and with no remorse for the lie. ‘But she’s tipsy and I would hate to risk her being scolded by her mother. She’s still brooding over this business of the bridesmaids, as I think you will know.’

‘Yes, it was a damnable trick for Greta to do to the child. I said my piece even though it didn’t suit either Greta or her mother. Well, if you feel it’s for the best, then take her home to your place. But what shall I tell my wife?’ he added in a faintly troubled tone.

‘Need she know?’

A small pause and then, ‘No, I don’t suppose so. She never takes enough interest in the child to know whether she’s in the house or not.’ If it occurred to Arthur that this in itself made it simple for Christine to be brought home and put to bed without her mother knowing, he did not say anything, and neither did Luke.

When he returned to the table his face darkened with anger. ‘I should have told Richard not to give you any more!’ He gestured for her to stand up, which she did, but began to sway immediately.

However, Luke managed to get her to the car without arousing the attention of other diners, but when he arrived at his villa she was fast asleep and he had to carry her indoors.

‘Mr. Curtis . . .’ Luke’s manservant stared and shook his head in a gesture of deep concern. ‘Sir . . . has Miss Christine been hurt?’

‘No, she’s not feeling too well, that’s all.’ He stopped on noting the sudden skeptical expression on the good- natured black face. ‘John,’ he said with a sigh of resignation, ‘you are quite right; she drank a little too much at the wedding.’

‘She isn’t used to it, Mr. Curtis, so why did they let her have too much?’

‘How much is
too
much?’ Walking over to the couch, Luke laid her down, fixing a cushion beneath her head. ‘As you say, she isn’t used to it, but at a wedding one cannot be watched, can one?’

John’s dark eyes flickered and he opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. When he presently did speak, it was to say curiously, ‘Why did you bring her here, Mr. Curtis?’

‘Because her mother doesn’t know how—er—ill she is—’ Luke stopped abruptly and frowned. ‘There’d be a lot more sense, John, in your getting some black coffee.’

‘At once,’ agreed John and left the room. Luke stared down at the young face resting on the cushion and a small sigh escaped him. She stirred and her long curling lashes flickered, casting alluring shadows onto cheeks that were now pale and a little drawn.

‘Oh . . .’ She turned and would have fallen off the couch if Luke had not stepped forward and pushed her back against the soft, cretonne-covered upholstery. ‘I feel awful. What happened—?’ Her eyes searched his face before flashing around the room. ‘I’m with you, Luke. I love it here,’ and with that she snuggled down, put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the light, and would have fallen asleep again but Luke bent to give her a little shake.

‘John’s bringing some black coffee and you’ll drink it, understand?’

Christine managed to sit up, supported by Luke’s arm. ‘John—what does he think?’

‘He thinks you’re drunk—

‘Tipsy!’ she flashed indignantly. ‘You had no right to tell him I was drunk!’

‘I didn’t need to. He’s not without perception.’

She stared into eyes that were hard and stem. ‘You’re angry with me but it was your fault!’

‘Careful, Chris,’ he warned in a dangerously soft voice. ‘My patience is not likely to stretch much further. I ought to spank you, and I might just do that if you don’t take a grip on yourself and stop this childish behaviour!’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘You’re suggesting I’m putting on an act?’

‘Not altogether, but you are being extraordinarily stupid.’

She coloured hotly and turned away, pushing his arm from her back. ‘You’re being unkind again. Have you no sympathy for me?’

‘The past is gone, Chris,’ he said brusquely, ‘and there’s no profit in continuing to dwell either on the bridesmaid business or on a man you can’t have.’

She seemed to flinch at his last words. Her voice had a hollow quality as she asked, slowly and painfully, ‘What time is it?’

‘They’ll be in bed,’ was Luke’s brutal reply and this time she shivered convulsively. It was the first time Luke had been really brutal with her and she knew a tug of pain that hurt in some mystifying way that was out of all proportion. Tears brimmed in her eyes; she had sobered miraculously and did not need the coffee which John brought in and set down on a small table by the couch. He had brought a full pot and asked if he should pour Luke a cup as well.

‘No, thank you, John. Just pour Miss Christine’s.’

It was done and she sipped the steaming liquid without protest, her tear-dimmed eyes still fixed upon Luke’s austere face. ‘I don’t know why you’re like this with me,’ she complained at length when the silence became unbearable. ‘Are you not friends with me any more?’

He moved away, towards the window where the drapes were wide open. Outside was the kidney-shaped swimming pool, illuminated from underneath, while all around it was the patio, covered with green all-weather carpet. Along the house wall earthenware pots and bronze containers held a variety of exotic plants— palms and allamandas, bird of paradise and angel’s tears, while among the lovely climbers were the jasmines and the delightful bougainvillaeas. Bushes of hibiscus ranging in colour from deepest crimson to palest pink were easily visible in the lights trained down from the tall pines which were the natural vegetation of the island.

‘Are you not even speaking to me?’ Some inexplicable fear began unfolding within her as Luke’s silence created a tension she could not explain but which was making her exceedingly uneasy. She had become so used to having him to lean upon that she had taken for granted the gentle care, the tenderness and the concern he had so freely extended to her since ever she could remember. Often she had wept on his broad shoulder, had snuggled into the haven of his arms, had poured out her heart, her innermost feelings. And if he should change towards her, should withdraw all that she had accepted as if it were her right . . . ‘Luke, why are you so quiet?’ The plea had its effect and he swung around, hands deep in his pockets. She looked at him, still immaculate in the off-white tropical suit he had worn for the wedding, his mouth and jaw set and stern, his eyes unfathomable in their masklike immobility.

‘Drink your coffee,’ he ordered and she knew for sure that this was not what he had intended saying to her. She obeyed, then slid from the couch, her dress, calf length, falling in folds which in some way accentuated the tender curves of her body. Luke’s mouth moved as if in a convulsive way, and that nerve was there again, she noticed, pulsing spasmodically as if an outlet for some violent emotion.

She came to him slowly and even though he stood immobile, with that forbidding expression on his face, she did not falter, and on reaching him she wound her arms about his neck, lifted her face, her lips parted in a smile. Still he did not move and she became aware of renewed fear growing and flourishing within her.
Where would she be without him?
This austere silence was too unbearable! The narrowed, discouraging coldness of his eyes.

‘Luke . . . please . . .’ Her tone was constrained; there was an irresolute moment before the onrush of desperation which impelled her to seek his lips and crush her mouth against them. The startled second, the angry exclamation, the repressive stiffening of his body . . . And then she was swept almost savagely into his arms, kissed so fiercely that she began to struggle for freedom. Luke had no mercy when at last she managed to gasp out a plea for release; he was master and he let her see it. His hands roamed, exploring her lovely curves, holding her breasts possessively, caressing delicate and hypersensitive places, arousing within her emotions she was experiencing for the first time in her life.

‘You’ve asked for it, Chris!’ His voice was low and hoarse, coming from lips hot against her slender white throat. ‘I tried—and you tempted—’

‘I’m sorry!’ she gasped, ‘and I’m frightened! Let me go, Luke—I didn’t m-mean to tempt you—’ But it was too late; he had gone too far. Her head was forced back by the passionate strength of his kiss; her body was being brought to submission by the erotic caress of his hands.

‘You shouldn’t have asked to come here!’ he told her almost savagely. ‘But as long as you did, then you’ll take the consequences!’ He swung her right off her feet and strode to the door.

‘Luke—what—?’

‘Shut up,’ he ordered roughly. ‘I’m not made of stone. . . .’ His voice trailed as the door opened before he reached it and John was there, his trusted Jamaican servant whose loyalty had more than once been proved.

‘The room, sir—I’ve had Janet get the west spare room ready.’ His expression remained wooden as he added, ‘I see you are having to carry Miss Christine. I’m sorry, sir, that she is still—er—unwell.’

Luke’s lips were tight and for a moment servant and employer stared hard at one another. And then a slow smile broke over Luke’s face. ‘Thank you, John for seeing about the room. I’ll take Miss Christine up at once.’

‘And I have instructed Janet to see to her, Mr. Curtis. For obviously Miss Christine will need help to undress and get into bed.’ Still the wooden expression remained.

Luke said quietly, ‘You think of everything, John, even the chaperoning service. Remind me to give you a raise.’

‘That, sir, is not at all necessary. I merely do what I consider necessary.’

And with that he made a slight bow, opened the door wider and watched as Luke passed through with his burden.

Christine awoke to the light of a new day pouring through the thin lacy material of the drapes; she heard birds chirping, a dog barking in the distance. All came back with a rush of embarrassment and shame. Luke! What must he think of her—? She stopped her thoughts, then switched them. Luke. What had he done? Worse still, what would he have done but for the intervention of John? John who was bent on protecting his employer, preventing him from an action he would by now have been regretting.

The blood was surging in her cheeks as she slid from between white linen sheets and approached the dressing table without even glancing around to examine the room and its luxurious furnishings. She was in a diaphanous nightgown which, she thought, must belong to Janet, the Bahamian girl who had worked for Luke since she was sixteen; and now she was almost twenty. Christine was naturally familiar with all Luke’s servants since she was a regular visitor to his house. She had never been in a bedroom till now, however, and the memory of how she came to be here was something she would recall with shame and embarrassment for the rest of her days—or so she believed at this particular time.