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He had made forays into exploring the technicalities of sex, of course, and had thought himself well aware of what did and what did not turn him on, but this girl, with her wild, gypsyish mane of hair, her strong, lithe body, her apparent indifference to her nudity and to his observation of it, excited his senses in a way that wasn’t solely sexual.
He wanted to take hold of her, to run his hands over her skin, to close his eyes and absorb its silky texture, to breathe in the scent of her, to stroke her with his tongue, to …
He groaned out loud, aware that he was almost shivering with the intensity of what he was feeling. He closed his eyes, trying to blot out her image, trying to deny his need to reach out to her, to touch her face, to explore its delicacy, to see if the full smoothness of her lips felt as soft and silken as it looked. They reminded him of the petals of a poppy, vulnerable, rich, drawing the eye and enticing the touch, but all too easily bruised if treated too roughly.
He gave another deep shudder, his body racked by the physical torment of his desire, by the emotional impact of his reaction to her. He felt somehow awed, and humbled, his mind a jumble of conflicting sensations and needs. He had an unfamiliar urge to throw himself at her feet, to tell her she was the most perfect, the most beautiful human being he had ever seen. He wanted to hold her, to cherish her, to tell her how much she moved him and in how many ways, and he wanted also to crush her body beneath his own, to enter her and possess her and hear her cry out with the same elemental, savage urge that pulsed through him.
That he should feel this way made him both elated and ashamed.
Saul’s father was a very moral man, and, despite what Saul had observed happening in the world around him, a part of him retained his father’s earliest teachings: that women were to be cherished and revered, protected and treated with tenderness and care. It confused him now that he should experience both that tenderness and at the same time an alien and very sharp physical desire that he could only translate in his own mind as somehow pagan and dangerous.
When he opened his eyes, trying dizzily to clear his mind, she had gone. The curtains were still drawn back, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
She had, he realised, opened the window. Had she seen him … watching her? A dark red tide of guilt and embarrassment burned his skin. He turned to his work, resolutely keeping his back to the house.
Half an hour passed, longer, but he still could not relax, his muscles taut and stressed.
He heard the back door open but he dared not turn round. The grass muffled the sound of her approach, but he still knew that she was there, even before he heard the slow seduction of her voice saying, ‘Hi. You must be Saul. I’m Angelica.’
He had to turn round. He couldn’t ignore her. She was tall, but nowhere near his own height. Her body was now clothed in jeans and a dark grey baggy sweater with a neckline that left her collarbone exposed and with it the graceful, delicate curve of her shoulder and throat.
She was close enough for him to catch her scent. He could feel the heat searing his body, the ache of wanting. She smiled at him, perfectly composed, perfectly at ease.
She had long, slanting hazel eyes … cat’s eyes, and close to her mouth was just as full, just as enticing as it had seemed at a distance. Her skin was matt and smooth, her nails, when she lifted her hand to push the tumble of her hair off her face, free of lacquer and yet somehow glossy and attractive.
He had a shocking second’s vision of them lying against his skin, digging into it, the kind of vision he had never had in his life, and with the heat of embarrassment that poured through his body came a sharp sense of surprise that he who had never experienced such a thing should know so clearly and so unequivocally how it would feel to have the fierce rake of her nails against his flesh, the passionate twisting of her body beneath his own.
‘I’m just having a drink. Want one?’
The casual words focused his attention on reality, although he couldn’t quite bring himself to look directly into her eyes, just in case she was laughing at him. Instead he looked round as though somehow expecting to see the usual glass of juice materialising out of thin air. He was thirsty, he recognised, his throat raw and dry. He nodded, still unable to trust his voice.
‘Come on, then.’ She turned back towards the house, plainly expecting him to follow her.
He dug the spade into the earth and did so.
He had been inside the house before on many occasions, but this time it felt different … almost as though in some way he was trespassing … or walking into danger. He felt the hairs on his arms lift as he paused on the threshold of the kitchen to remove his boots.
His socks were old heavy-duty ones he wore when he was working. There was a hole in one toe and he blushed furiously as he saw it. He couldn’t imagine her ever wearing anything with holes in it … ever looking less than the picture of immaculate perfection she presented now. When his sister wore jeans they looked like jeans. On this girl … And that sweater …
He felt himself go hot as into his mind slipped a mental image of his tugging it down over her shoulder to expose her flesh to the exploration of his mouth. He imagined her winding her arms around his neck, pressing herself up against him, making small excited noises of pleasure in his ear.
‘Coffee do, or would you prefer something stronger? Always supposing you’re old enough to drink it.’
Her words brought him back to reality. He swung round and then flushed as he saw the way she was looking at him. ‘Coffee will do fine,’ he told her thickly.
He watched, fascinated, as she lit herself a cigarette. He had never been able to understand why anyone should want to poison themselves with nicotine, but now, watching as she perched on the edge of the kitchen table, supporting her weight with one slender hand, arching her back so that her breasts were clearly outlined beneath her sweater, he suddenly wished that he too was a smoker; that he could go up to her and lean close to her as he lit his cigarette from hers.
‘Coffee’s over there,’ she told him, gesturing towards the filter machine but not making any attempt to help him. ‘Help yourself.’
He moved awkwardly across the kitchen, conscious of his mud-stained jeans, his holey socks, the sweat drying on his body in the warmth of the room.
‘Not much to say for yourself, have you?’ she commented mockingly. ‘Will you be working here all week?’
He nodded, his body tensing as he saw the way her nipples were pushing against the wool of her sweater.
Feverishly febrile images tormented his senses. Mentally he pictured her naked body as he had seen it earlier. Beneath her sweater she was naked now. He knew it. He ached to go over to her, to reach out and touch her, not in lust but with all the aching emotion, all the weakening need, all the unexpected reverence for the perfection of her body that he could feel tormenting him, sweeping aside all that he had previously thought he believed about sex.
Within three days they were lovers. Angelica was the one who initiated their intimacy, laughing at his hesitancy, his shyness and his inexperience, and then suddenly heart-stoppingly ceasing to laugh at him when she touched his naked body, stroking it with her fingertips, and then with her soft open mouth, doing to him unimaginable, unbearable things that made him forget his inexperience and his hesitancy as he took hold of her and possessed her, making her cry out with sharp pleasure.
By the end of the week it was as though he had known her all his life, as though she had always been a part of him. Each time, he tried to find some new way to please her, to show her how much he loved her.
She had no inhibitions, knew no boundaries, and if at first he was semi-shocked by her lack of hesitation or shyness, that shock quickly disappeared under the expert ministrations of her hands and her mouth.
One afternoon when it was unexpectedly mild she insisted on making love outside, in the wild, overgrown section of the garden out of sight of the house.
Afterwards she smiled languorously, showing her teeth like a stalking cat as she whispered to him, ‘Mm … very D.H. Lawrence, but I think I prefer doing it inside, and there are still some things we haven’t tried.’
As he held her close, wanting to prolong the intimacy they were sharing, she leaned towards him, telling him explicitly what she would like to do.
It still had the power to shock him, this almost aggressive sexuality she possessed, but he was too besotted with her to question why he should want to recoil from any evidence that this was not her first experience of sexual pleasure. He knew that she was twelve months older than he was, but he was tall and well built and could easily have passed for a youth of nineteen or twenty rather than one of seventeen.
He had been disconcerted to discover that her favourite place for making love was her father’s study. At first he had felt uncomfortable, inhibited, being there, but his desire for her and the way she touched and aroused him quickly subdued those feelings.
She had a game she liked to enact with him, a fantasy, which she played out in the study. She was, she told him, his secretary, and he was to summon her into the room and then order her to make love to him. For this fantasy she would dress up in a neatly formal little suit, but under it she would be completely naked, or sometimes she would simply wear stockings. On other occasions she was the one who was the aggressor, sitting on the desk in front of him, peeling off her clothes, stroking her hands over her own skin but forbidding him to touch her until she said that he might.
Often by the time she finally allowed him to touch her he was so aroused that he could do little other than give in to his need to possess her, so quickly that afterwards he felt cheated almost, aching for an opportunity to show her how much he loved her, to touch her with tenderness and love, to spend as long as he could savouring every aspect of her and his love for her before that final act of possession.
Sometimes when he left her he experienced the same feeling he had as a child when his father had told him about the importance of success; an empty, hollow feeling as though something wasn’t quite right … as though there was something absent … missing.
He had ten days with her before she told him she was going back to college.
‘I’ll write to you,’ she promised, and foolishly he believed her. Even more foolishly he spent so much time aching for her, yearning for her, that he failed two out of his four A levels and had to resit them.
His father’s disappointment was the hardest to bear, the feeling of having let him down, of having allowed himself to forget his main goal, and because of that he set up barriers to protect himself from making the same mistake a second time. Emotions, he warned himself, must never be allowed to take priority over ambition. He had seen what could happen when they did. He had almost ruined his entire future, and for what? A girl who had not even written him one letter, a girl who, he saw with retrospect, had simply been using him … who had never been emotionally involved with him in the way he had been with her.
To punish himself for his weakness he concentrated exclusively on his work, studying so far into the night that his mother protested. His father shook his head and said that sometimes in order to succeed sacrifices had to be made; that he was young and could afford to miss out on a few hours’ sleep … that he wished he had Saul’s chances … that, given his life again …
Saul escaped to his own room, unable to bear the look of pain and sadness he knew would be in his mother’s eyes.
This time he passed his A levels with exceptionally high grades. He had learned an extremely valuable lesson, and all the time he was at Oxford he took care to avoid getting himself into any kind of situation that would make him emotionally vulnerable.
He dated girls, even slept with one or two of them, but he always made it clear that, while physically he found them desirable, that was all he wanted, and all he had to offer.
He got the reputation of being remote and unemotional. ‘Clever as hell,’ was the way one girl described him, ‘cold as Siberia and so sexy that just looking at him makes you ache inside.’
When Saul heard this description he smiled grimly to himself. He was a lot wiser now than he had been at seventeen, and a lot less naïve. He knew a come-on when he heard one, but he wasn’t going to respond. His finals lay ahead of him, and after that, hopefully, a year at Harvard. And this time he wasn’t going to forget all the important things he had learned from his father; this time he wasn’t going to make the mistake of allowing his emotions to get in the way of his ambitions.
The phone rang. Saul frowned as he picked up the receiver.
‘Ah, Saul. Glad I was able to catch you in.’
His frown intensified as he recognised Sir Alex’s voice. It was like the man that he should feel no need to introduce himself; that he should assume autocratically that he needed no introduction.
‘I was half expecting you’d be on your way to Cheshire by now.’
Subtlety, at least when it came to people rather than business, had never been Sir Alex’s strong point, Saul reflected. His tools of persuasion veered more towards the verbal bludgeoning and threatening school than the delicate hint.
‘You haven’t forgotten our discussion, have you?’ Sir Alex queried sharply when Saul made no response. ‘Or are you suffering another crisis of conscience?’
‘I shall be leaving for Cheshire once I’ve tied up some loose ends here,’ Saul told him coolly.
There weren’t really any loose ends for him to tie up. He knew already as much as he was going to know about Carey’s without being on the spot to do some far more in-depth research, but he could feel himself bristling inwardly at Alex’s bullying tone. The older man’s manner was beginning to jar on him. There were many things about him that Saul genuinely liked and admired, but he had never been more conscious of how little he wanted to be like him.
And yet for years he had worked patiently towards that one goal: to take over from Sir Alex when he retired. To take over from him, but not to be him.
On Sir Alex’s desk was a photograph of his daughter, taken when she graduated from Cambridge. Sir Alex had not been there for her graduation. He had been away on business. He and his wife had divorced over twenty years ago, and as far as Saul knew Sir Alex’s contact with his daughter was now limited to the exchange of cards at Christmas. Was that what he wanted? Was that the kind of relationship he wanted with his children?
For the first time behind the slightly hectoring tone of his employer’s voice Saul was suddenly aware of, if not exactly a loneliness, then certainly an aloneness. Two men, both of them, in the eyes of the world, successful and to be envied, but take away their work and what was there really in their lives?
For quite a long time after his conversation with Sir Alex was over he sat motionlessly where he was.
Beside him on his desk was the small file containing the basic facts about Carey Chemicals. He picked it up, flipping it open as he started to read.
He read quickly, pausing only a handful of times, once when he read how the company had originally come into being, a second time when he read of Gregory James’s heavy losses on the money markets, and a third time when he read that the company was now in the hands of his widow, the founder’s granddaughter, Davina James.
She would want to sell. She would have to. There was no other option open to her. The business was on the verge of bankruptcy. Saul suspected he knew the kind of woman she would be. The investigating agents Sir Alex had employed had been thorough. There were no details of Gregory James’s many affairs, just a couple of paragraphs stating that his unfaithfulness was a constant and ongoing situation and that it would seem that his wife must have been aware of it.
Saul thought he knew the type. He had met enough of them over the years; elegant, brittle, too thin, too tense and too expensively dressed, they reminded him of fragile china ornaments. You always had the feeling that if they were asked to participate in anything real they would crack and fall apart.
Some of them turned to sex as a means of solace for the uninterest of their husbands, some of them turned to drink, some to good works, but none of them, it seemed to Saul, seemed prepared to take the simple step of freeing themselves from the humiliation and destruction of their marriages by divorcing their husbands. Wealth, position, appearances, it seemed, were always more important than pride, self-respect or self-worth.
He had once made the mistake of saying as much to Christie and she had turned on him immediately, challenging him to put himself in their shoes, to be what life and circumstances had forced them to be.
He winced a little as he remembered her anger, her vehemence about the fact that so many members of her sex were taught almost from birth to accept second best, to put others first, to give instead of to take. Many of them were held in those marriages by their children, she had told him fiercely.
But Davina James did not have any children. He frowned as he lifted the last sheet of paper from the file and saw the photographs pinned neatly behind it.
There were several of Carey Chemicals, showing the run-down state of the buildings and how totally ill equipped it was to compete with even the poorest of its competitors. Without that all-important heart-drug patent which had been revised over the years to create a second patent it would have disappeared decades ago.
There was another photograph. He stiffened as he saw the name written on the back: ‘Davina James’.
He turned it over.
She was nothing like what he had imagined. The file quoted her date of birth, so he knew that she was thirty-seven years old, but in this photograph she looked younger and vulnerable in a way that made his body tense with rejection.
There was none of the glossy sophistication that he had expected about her. She was dressed in jeans and what looked like a man’s shirt, one hand lifted to push a strand of soft fair hair out of her eyes. She was wearing gardening gloves and there was a smear of dirt along one cheekbone, a fork in the ground at her feet. Her skin, free of make-up, looked clear and soft, and without even realising what he was doing Saul suddenly discovered that his thumb was touching her face.
But it wasn’t the living warmth of a woman’s flesh he could feel, just the hard glossy texture of the print.
He withdrew his hand as though the print had scorched him.
CHAPTER SIX (#u6f0fd936-9bca-5424-abf4-f69d60383cb6)
GUILTILY aware of how long it had been since she had last seen Lucy, and of the discomfited look on Giles’s face whenever she mentioned his wife to him, on Saturday afternoon, knowing that Giles would be playing golf and that Lucy would be on her own, Davina decided to call round and see her.
She had done nothing wrong, she assured herself as she drove through the village. It was her duty to do all she could to protect the livelihoods of those who worked for Carey’s, and without Giles’s help she could not do that.
But Giles was Lucy’s husband, and one of the reasons she had been able to persuade Giles to stay on had been his feelings for her. Feelings which neither of them had discussed … admitted, but which both of them knew were there. Did Lucy know as well?
Davina’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt anyone, and she genuinely liked Lucy. Oh, she knew that there were those in their small, tight-knit local circle who disapproved of her; Lucy wasn’t like them. She was flamboyant, outspoken, turbulent and passionate. She was also extremely attractive, Davina reflected as she drove through the soft Cheshire countryside.
And extremely unhappy?
Davina pushed the thought away. Lucy’s obvious disenchantment with her life and with her husband had nothing to do with her. Lucy was not a woman’s woman. She had no interest in cosy, gossipy chats over cups of coffee, comfortable womanly discussions on the failings of men in general and husbands in particular, rueful, sometimes too dangerously honest admissions that there came a point in a relationship when sex was no longer its prime motivating force, when, as one long-married wife had once put it in Davina’s hearing, she ‘got more excitement out of watching Neighbours than making love with her husband’.
Lucy was openly, too openly sometimes, scornful of that kind of female intimacy. Lucy was different, and, because she was different, other women found her dangerous.
Davina didn’t find her dangerous. Davina liked her, and when Giles had first come to work for Carey’s Davina had envied her. Things had been different then. She had not yet met Matt, and Lucy and Giles had been so obviously, so passionately, so blindingly in love with one another that it had made Davina’s empty heart ache just to see them.
She remembered calling round early one afternoon just after they had moved in. Giles had come to answer the door, his face flushed, his hair untidy, apologising for keeping her waiting, and then behind him on the landing Davina had seen Lucy, and she had known immediately that she had interrupted them making love.
She had felt so envious then, so alone.
And now she felt guilty, even though she told herself she had nothing to feel guilty about.
Davina parked her car on the Cheshire brick herringbone-patterned drive and walked up to the front door.
She remembered the first time she had visited the house and how stunned she had been by the way Lucy had decorated and furnished it. The whole house had seemed to sing with harmonious colour and warmth, soft peaches and terracottas which complemented Lucy’s dark red hair, cool blues and greens and creams, the colour of her eyes and skin; the house was Lucy, Davina had thought, right down to the femininity of the soft cushions and the voluptuous way in which she had used her fabrics. It was a house in which even on the greyest of days the sun always seemed to be shining.
Today the sun was shining, but when Lucy opened the door Davina was shocked to see how pale she looked, how withdrawn her manner was in stark contrast to her normal ebullience.
‘Lucy, it’s been ages since I saw you,’ Davina told her nervously. ‘It’s the company. It seems to eat into my time.’ As she followed Lucy into the kitchen Davina was aware that she was speaking too fast, gabbling almost.
‘Funny, that’s always Giles’s excuse,’ Lucy told her harshly. ‘The company. Odd that you never seemed very interested in it while Gregory was alive, isn’t it?’
There was outright hostility in her voice now and Davina’s heart sank. This was what she had been dreading; that Lucy would resent her for persuading Giles to stay on.
‘Lucy, I know how you must feel,’ she began awkwardly. ‘But——’
‘Do you? I don’t think so,’ Lucy interrupted her bitterly. ‘You aren’t the one who has to sit here alone all day waiting for your husband to come home, are you? Why are you so anxious to hold on to Carey’s, Davina? You never cared about it while Gregory was alive.’
‘I didn’t realise then the problems they were having,’ Davina told her. On that subject at least she could be totally honest with Lucy. She owed it to her to be totally honest with her. ‘I have to try to keep Carey’s going, Lucy. I can’t let the company close down.’
‘Why not? You’re financially secure, aren’t you?’
Davina winced at the accusation in her voice. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It isn’t the money, Lucy. It isn’t for me …’
‘Then who is it for?’ Lucy asked sarcastically. ‘Giles?’
