127

Next time Jack went swimming, he paused at the door, towel over his shoulder as usual.

‘Coming?’ he asked her as she sat at the kitchen table, Trix at her feet.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Well, the offer’s there.’

‘No. Thanks.’

When he’d gone, she mentally kicked herself. She was being a coward, and cowardice just wasn’t in her nature. Or it hadn’t been, before Harlan had thrown her into a tank full of caimans. She’d always been bold Belle, seizing every challenge. But now the thought of getting into water – any water – seriously scared her. Brought back too many awful memories. Made her think of the pain, the scars . . .

Oh Christ the scars.

She was stronger now. Fitter. Jack didn’t have to mock her over the hay bales any more; she could lift them.

Her leg had more or less healed now, though there was a line of crusted tooth marks all up her calf to show for the experience. They reminded her of people who’d suffered shark attacks, who sported forever after a pale crescent moon of tooth marks. But worse, far worse, was her face. She spent long minutes every day staring at her reflection in the reinstated bathroom mirror, or at the dressing table mirrors that Jack had put back up.

She would never be the same again. Now even her name felt like a mockery. Belle meant beautiful, didn’t it. Which she wasn’t. All her previous self-confidence was shot to hell.

She wasn’t Belle, not any more.

Scarface.

Her right side was the same as it had always been. Her left . . . she would never get used to that damage. The puckered purple scarring, the distortion, the tightness whenever she tried to smile, an instant reminder of what was there, what would always be there.

He’d done this to her. Harlan Stone.

And more.

The anger and grief at the loss of her family ate at her, every day. And here she was, escaping from the world. Hiding.

Like a fucking coward.

Yeah, that was her. She was afraid. Scared witless of the water and of the world outside the safety of this place. And she was also . . . damn, she could barely acknowledge this, it was too fucking embarrassing . . . she was also scared by the way she was beginning to feel about Jack Tavender. Back in her past life, she had always been the cool girl, the one men turned to look at. Now, her scars had robbed her of that. Just once, she’d answered the door to the postman when Jack was off in the local market town, and the expression on the man’s face had made her shrink into herself with shame. He’d been visibly shocked.

She was a mess, inside and out.

And there was something bad, something worse, it seemed to her, now. She could scarcely bear this, it was so painful to acknowledge, but it was the truth. She was hopelessly attracted to Jack, and getting closer to him day by day. And that was . . . Christ, it was just sad, because look at the state of her.

Next day and the next, he asked again. Did she want to come for a swim?

‘No,’ said Belle, but every day she felt worse about it.

Next day, the same. ‘Coming?’

‘No. Thanks.’

And again, the day after that.

The day after that, she was sitting there at the kitchen table with Trix and a towel.

‘Coming then?’ he asked.

‘OK. All right. Did your mum have any bathers?’

He looked blank.

‘A swimsuit?’ Belle elaborated.

‘Not that I know of. Sorry.’

Which was her perfect ‘out’ of this. Her heart was beating sickly in her chest with terror. But she was going to do it.

‘Never mind,’ she said, faking a breezy tone. ‘I’ll wing it, yeah? Go back to nature.’

Now she was committed. She couldn’t say she was coming and then bottle it. They left Trix in the yard and walked down the edge of the field, and with every step Belle felt herself grow more and more afraid. Three quarters of the way down there, Jack stopped walking.

‘You OK?’ he asked, looking at her face. Instinctively, Belle turned her scarred side away from him.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look a bit green around the gills.’

‘I’m fine.’

He carried on walking, Belle following behind. When they reached the river, Belle sat down on the bank, feeling like she was going to hurl. Down in the dip, the water rushed on by, powerful and merciless.

Black water.

The monstrous things, old as the mouth of hell, ancient predators, slipping in, coming to get her . . .

‘Don’t think about it,’ Jack reminded her, somehow reading her mind. He was shrugging off his shirt and dropping it onto the grass.

Belle drew in a shuddering breath and flicked up a glance at him. Instantly she was sorry she had. That was the other thing that flummoxed her, his so-casual attitude to his own body. She looked at his chest, furred lightly with black hair, and his arms, so muscular, so whipcord strong. Then he unbuckled his belt and unzipped, and she quickly looked away.

Her heart hammering in her chest now, sweaty from the heat of the day and so glad of the shady cool of the trees overhead, she heard him move away from her, down the bank. She heard him wade out into the water. She turned and looked.

He was swimming over to the opposite bank. Reaching it, he turned and ploughed back through the water and looked up at her.

‘Coming in, then?’ he said.

God, she was so sick of this. She didn’t feel like herself, not any more. She’d had the shit kicked out of her. And that made her mad. She’d lost her nerve; she was broken. Broken by Harlan fucking Stone.

No. That won’t happen. I can’t let it.

She looked down at Jack, grinning a challenge at her. And him. So bloody confident. Strutting around in the altogether like it didn’t matter a damn. She felt fury building in her. At Harlan, at Jack, at the whole damned world.

‘All right,’ she said. She stood up and quickly threw off the faded chambray shirt and his mother’s old jeans. Then naked, defiant, she walked down to the water’s edge and, steeling herself, she waded in.