Vicky spent the afternoon with John McKinley, sitting under the cool of the trees, sipping ice-cold drinks, as she told him everything about her years with Mary.
And John McKinley revealed a little more of the Mary she never knew, and left her in no doubt at all of the remarkable woman her aunt had been; a story that was a fitting climax to her own impetuous journey – and a journey into the past as John McKinley recalled the far away days of happiness, then tragedy, and a sacrifice made for love.
In the evening there was a welcome home party with over three hundred guests attending.
Vicky was overwhelmed by the mixture of formal sophistication, the glamour, and a thoroughly relaxed friendliness with which the McKinley’s seemed able to surround themselves.
It was an occasion for evening dress – with many of the men in white dinner jackets and the women in long, elegantly designed dresses. A small string orchestra played the music of Vivaldi, discreetly, in the background.
Although nothing further was said about the suggested trips to ‘Florence, Rome and Venice, she was shown from group to group by the Contessa, with a surprising introduction.
“Our guest from England – almost one of the family.”
But Carl made a point of keeping out of her way. Once, when she had deliberately edged her way into the group of people he was in, he had, not long afterwards, excused himself, leaving her biting her lip and staring moodily into her drink.
It seemed to her that the Contessa’s invitation to be shown Italy by her son had embarrassed him in front of everybody – especially Anna.
She glanced across at him, his head and shoulders towering above the others, his gold-brown skin contrasting with his white jacket with its red carnation in the buttonhole, his dark hair and blue eyes, smiling with a warm good humour as he leant and listened to a stunningly-dressed and beautiful woman, whom she was told later, was a star of Italian television.
Vicky drank some more to try and quench the rising resentment within her.
Just who did he think he was? Couldn’t he be normally pleasant to her – just the once?
The television star threw back her head and gave an exaggerated laugh, smacking Carl on the arm, as she berated him for something that he had said.
Vicky turned away, unable to bear it a moment longer – and came directly face to face with Anna. For a second they were held, frozen, hostile eyes locked onto each other.
Then totally unexpected Anna asked her if she was enjoying herself. Vicky nodded. What was coming next? What barb was about to be thrust into her?
“Yes, it’s quite an occasion.”
Anna lifted her glass to her lips.
“They have these gatherings two or three times a year,” she explained. “Carl is always such a success with everyone. Doesn’t he look handsome in his dinner jacket?”
What was she leading up to, Vicky wondered?
Anna laid a hand gently on her forearm.
“You really must forgive me for my melodramatic outburst earlier. It’s just that...” She glanced back at Carl. “... I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. You see...he’s not the easiest of men.”
Vicky, suspicious, shrugged.
“Forget it.”
She might have agreed if they had really been friends, but she said nothing to this woman whom she would never trust again.
Anna turned away and needed to conceal her face as she continued...
“If it’s not other women it’s that damned studio of his down on the beach. Locks himself in there for hours on end. Sometimes all night” I've only his word that he’s painting all the time.”
She said it meaningfully, leaving Vicky in no doubt what she thought.
“Have you never been down there to find out?” she questioned. “Confronted him?”
Anna’s eyes widened.
“As I believe you already know he’s funny about anyone going in there. I’d be too scared.”
Vicky turned, and felt the excitement course through her veins.
“Why? What could he do about it?”
Anna lowered her eyes.
“You have no idea. He’s a very dominant man - if you know what I mean?”
Vicky flared.
“No, I don’t, and if he laid a hand on me I’d --” she couldn’t finish; the roar of blood in her ears seemed to drain out all the voices in the room.
She grabbed a fresh glass of wine from a passing servant, and gulped down half of the contents, watching as she did the television star reach up and kiss Carl on the cheek.
He laughed, and moved away to another group of people. He was immediately accosted by two women in evening gowns with plunging necklines and thigh length splits, wonderful glowing skin and hair and flashing white smiles.
Anna winced, and glowered.
“I've got a dreadful headache, I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow.”
“Ciao,” Vicky said automatically.
Anna looked momentarily taken off her guard. But soon recovered her equilibrium.
“Ciao.”
As she disappeared into the throng of people, Vicky sipped at the remains of her drink.
No wonder the woman was living on her nerves, she thought, even though she couldn’t excuse her previous behaviour. But she was beginning to understand.
A feeling of disappointment, of being let down, came over her. Moodily, she drained her glass, and found another fresh one, continuing to watch Carl as he went from woman to woman.
It was quite a revelation to see him in his true colours. The resentment in her exploded like a fireball. She was suddenly and acutely aware that Anna wasn’t the only woman who could be consumed by jealousy.
From the corner of the room Anna paused, and glanced back at Vicky Norwood, a gleam in her eye.
That the women who flirted with Carl invariably got nowhere, were politely but firmly rejected, was well known to her.
That’s why his harsh over-reaction to Vicky and those black thunderous moods had alerted her to the real danger that she posed.
Anna looked at the young Englishwoman with contempt. Here was a creature, she thought, who hadn’t the sense to realise fully what was going on.
Half an hour later, with Vicky’s resentment growing every time she caught a glimpse of Carl and his female acolyte, they quite by accident came together. But she failed to sense his obvious relief at seeing her.
He smiled, unknowingly infuriating her even more.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Vicky?”
She couldn’t stop herself.
“I presume you’ll be ending up in the beach studio,” she snapped back at him, “if that’s what it is.”
Mystified, he said –
“I don’t understand?”
Vicky’s mouth tightened.
“I gather that you are sometimes given to spending the entire night there. Painting, one is led to believe.” she said, her voice full of sarcasm.
Stony-faced, Carl stared back at her.
“Yes – painting. What else had you in mind?”
She knew what she was doing. Knew she was provoking him, but couldn’t stop herself. Her stomach convulsed as she realized why – and what he might do.
It came out, riding on the crest of her own repressed....
She laughed, a little theatrically, and appealed to others gathered around her.
“I’m told you entertain there.”
Carl stiffened, quickly excused himself, and made to walk away but she continued to taunt him.
“I think I’ll go down to the studio and see you in action. Painting, of course.”
There was a little burst of laughing from round about.
He raised an admonishing finger at her.
“I’ve already told you. The studio is out of bounds – to everybody. Stay away from there. I've warned you of the consequences.”
Confused, and excited, she suddenly felt frightened, but still couldn’t stop herself.
“And what if I don’t care for your orders?”
To her annoyance she realized her voice was unnaturally higher.
His blue eyes glinted dangerously, but his tone was soft and mocking, and he pretended to grin.
“Then I shall have to extract the appropriate penalty.”
“And what might that be?” she sneered, feeling almost dizzy with expectancy.
An infuriating smile played around his lips as he looked around at everybody.
“I’ll put you across my knee if I have to.”
Her heart seemed to be trying to get out of her rib cage.
As he walked away Vicky was left trembling with humiliation, aware of the others in the room smirking and giggling.
What on earth was she doing? What was the matter with her?
Conscious of the continuing sniggering, she suddenly had to get out, get away. Vicky tried to be as calm and controlled as she could, but as soon as she was outside she ran down the steps to the terrace, and leant against the last of the stone balustrade, breathing heavily. Her skin was tingling, her imagination running wild. In terms of sheer strength, he would be able to do it; was her physical master.
Vicky clung to the stonework, as the ground beneath her seemed to be moving. And although she felt so weak that she could hardly walk, she found that couldn’t stop herself from releasing her grip on the balustrade and slowly walking in the direction of the forbidden studio, stumbling on the moonlit path, like she was tipsy. She came to the beach, the moon sending a column of shivering silver across the sea to the very edge of the sand.
She looked back at the villa, at the lights, and the sound of the party; and the music, barely audible above the chatter and laughter of the guests.
Suddenly anger, at herself for acting like a sixth form schoolgirl on a date, and for leaving the party, welled up in her. And anger at the way he had humiliated her. But the madness did not diminish.
As she made for the studio, she automatically tried the door, knowing it was locked. She walked around to the side and came upon a small top window, which had been left open, presumably to let in the fresh sea air, as it had been a hot day.
Unable to reach it she looked around her for something to stand on. An old wooden bench, set against a nearby wall caught her eye and she spent several minutes working it into position.
Balancing precariously on it, she lifted up the open window, and found there was just enough room for her to get through. But she would have to push up and commit herself.
There could be no going back.
She gritted her teeth, and such was her mood, it never occurred to her to give up.
She jumped, half falling through the narrow aperture, and then stuck, with her top half through the frame, her bottom and wildly kicking legs still on the outside.
It did nothing for her nerves when she thought what Carl would do to her if he caught her like that.
With a last desperate push, accompanied by a little squeal she pitched head first into the studio, landing luckily on a sofa.
In the darkness, she quickly got to her feet, shuffled forward, stumbled into something that fell over with a crash.
Frightened of doing irreparable damage, she edged her way along the wall, towards the door, feeling all the while for a light switch.
Her fingers closed on what felt like one.
At first she was unable to budge it, then realised in her state of nerves that somebody had told her that switches worked in the opposite way on the Continent.
The room flooded with light, so bright that it momentarily blinded her.
When she was finally able to take stock of the interior she realised, with a great sense of relief – swiftly followed by one of shame – that she was standing in a studio. There was no way that it could have been anything else, apart from the small battered, print-stained and very uncomfortable sofa.
Stacked around were literally hundreds of picture frames and canvases, and boxes of paint were piled neatly on shelves, and rows of brushes of all shapes and sizes in jars.
Overturned on the floor was an easel, and a canvas flung to one side. Nowhere, she thought guiltily, was there room for any type of assignation.
Mortified, she sat down on a stool and wondered what on earth had got into her?
Tears were welling up into her eyes.
What a first-class idiot she had proved to be. It was then that she heard footsteps outside.
She whirled around, just as a key rattled in the lock.
When the door opened, the tall figure of Carl was silhouetted against the evening sky. When he came into the room and faced her, there was a strange look in his eyes.
Vicky shot to her feet, and felt her heart miss a beat.
For seconds that seemed like minutes Carl stood and looked down at her. Then he took a step towards her.
Vicky stepped backwards and stumbled over the stool.
“Stay away from me! If you so much as lay a finger on me, I’ll...”
“You’ll what?” he drawled contemptuously.
Vicky thought she would collapse, her legs were trembling so much.
Lamely, she said, “Call for help.”
He grunted, and took another step nearer to her.
“Nobody can hear you.”
She stepped back further, and found herself trapped against the wall of the studio.
“I mean it,” she said. “Keep away from me.”
“I warned you about coming here,” he said, and smiled infuriatingly. “Now you’ve got to take your medicine.”
She felt herself torn between a heady mixture of fear and excitement, forcing her heart into her mouth.
The thought of being smacked like a little schoolgirl - -
Suddenly with one large stride he was upon her, seized her wrist and sat down, pulling her across his lap in one easy movement.
Vicky gave a little squeal of fright as she looked down at the tiled floor in front of her face, and started to say, “How dare you...” then the flat of his hand descended on the thin material of the dress covering her bottom.
She was almost too shocked to react. It took a second loud slap to make her realize just what was happening.
Vicky yelled and struggled wildly, and tried to turn and look back up at him, but his other arm held her effortlessly in position as he continued to firmly spank her.
And with each slap, she squealed and hit out ineffectually at the iron hard muscles of his legs.
Tears began to stream down her face, not from pain, it only felt like a stinging warmth that was not unpleasant, and which began to spread through her whole body, but with the realization that she was no longer in charge of herself. That this man was doing as he pleased with her.
And a certain hardness pressing into her belly suddenly made her aware of the physical pleasure it was giving him.
She stopped struggling then.
And it seemed that was all she had to do – that he took that to be her complete surrender. With one final slap he rested his hand on her motionless body. Seconds passed, then he lifted her up and sat her down on his lap, one hand cupping the back of her head as his mouth closed down over hers.
His lips forced hers apart, and she had to hold on to his broad shoulders to steady herself. All the madness of before, the unsettling provocation, the weird anticipation, the humiliation – everything – evaporated in his fierce and compelling embrace.
When he finally released her she laid her head sideways on his chest, and whispered –
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”
He held her gently away from him and took her hands surprisingly gently.
“Are you?”
She looked into his hooded blue eyes, and didn’t trust herself to say any more, but just nodded. She could still feel his thrusting hardness that made her blood race.
“In that case, will you do what I ask?”
She guessed what was coming, knew now, what her primordial mind and body had been trying to tell her all along with its irrational urges, - that she wanted this man to possess her.
There was only answer she could give.
Gently, he found her chin with his finger and thumb, and held her so that there was no escaping from his steady blue eyes. She wondered how he would say it.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I want to paint you.”
There was silence.
For a moment she thought she had misheard, then when it dawned on her that he had not said what she was expecting, - that he wanted to make love to her,- she was stunned, speechless - - and crushingly disappointed.
Finally, she heard herself say –
“Paint me?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head, trying to clear it.
“I don’t understand...”
His eyes softened.
“I would have thought that was obvious.”
“I still don’t see...”
“Vicky..”
He seemed to be having difficulty, looking away before his eyes found hers again.
“I want to paint all of you, a study from life, - from nature – you understand what I’m asking?”
“It took a few seconds to sink in what was his intention. He meant to paint her naked.
She felt the heat in her face suffusing down her back and down her breasts. She leant back against the wall for support.
Her mind filled with the portrait of her aunt she had found beneath the bed, a portrait that glowed with the love of an artist for his subject.
And Vicky remembered, too, the shock at the sight of it, for Aunt Mary had made no attempt to cover her natural beauty.
Had it been like that for her aunt, in a much more straight-laced era?
Seconds passed and then, as if by magic, she heard her own small voice acquiesce.
“All right.”
With a tenderness that left her breathless, Carl stroked his hand caressingly down her hair. He brushed his lips lightly against hers, his warm breath playing on her face, as he whispered – “Tomorrow morning. On the beach. I’ll be waiting.”
With that he lifted her gently to one side and without another word he turned on his heel and left her – alone in his precious studio.
It took a great effort to go back to the party – but she managed it, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and mingling with the guests, knowing that they had seen her leave, and must have noticed he’d been absent too. Were they all imagining what had happened?
Carl appeared to make every endeavour to keep out of her way. She wondered if this was some kind of ploy on his part to give the impression to everybody that they had not met.
It could only have been half an hour or so, but it seemed like an eternity before she managed finally to slip away.
Back in her room Vicky shed all her clothing. In front of the full-length mirror she examined herself from every possible angle. Even now her bottom was still red from his attention. She trembled at the memory of what had happened, how she had felt – what she had done to provoke him.
In the privacy of her bedroom, her pale, shocked face suddenly reddened. There was no doubt in her mind that she was frightened at the discovery of things about herself that she had never before realized were there – dark things. And now he wanted her to be naked, and exposed before his gaze.
Not in the heat of a moment, but for hours, in the daytime, with everything so normal, except for her lying there.
Could she do it in front of a man she had only just met?
But Vicky knew it was going to happen.
So what was driving her on? She shivered again at the memory of what he had done to her, and that last kiss, and knew why.
She wanted to possess him and the only way she could do that was by using her own femininity, to counter his physical superiority – merge her own frailty with his strength, and control it.
After all, hadn’t women done that since time began?