HIS face still blank, hands shoved negligently into the pockets of his jeans, shoulder resting against the wardrobe, he asked incredulously, ‘Are you actually accusing me of having had an affair with your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you also accusing me of having known she was your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when was this supposed affair supposed to have taken place?’
‘It isn’t supposed! And how the hell should I know when it took place? I wasn’t damned well there, was I?’ In the face of his continuing silence, she added angrily, ‘Two years ago. And that was why you broke off our—the…said you had to go, because you suddenly realised what you were doing, didn’t you? Because you still had some shred of ethics left and realised it wouldn’t be quite the thing to seduce both sisters.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seduce?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes!’
‘You do hold me in contempt, don’t you?’ he drawled, and the brown eyes that could look so sleepy didn’t look sleepy at all. ‘And I thought we’d agreed, earlier, that it was you who seduced me. Because you were drunk.’
‘Shut up! And did you ask her if she was satisfied?’ she choked. Nervous, frightened, hurting so very much inside, wishing she hadn’t said anything, wishing he didn’t look as though murder might be a very nice option, she turned quickly away, began tugging frantically at the wardrobe door again.
He made a fist, helpfully thumped it above the lock, and the door sprang obediently open.
‘Thank you,’ she gritted.
‘My pleasure,’ he said icily.
Staring blindly at the clothes hanging limply inside, the anger that had sustained her gone, she whispered, ‘Was it because of Athena?’
‘What?’ And she would never have believed that so much ice could be injected into one simple word. So much contempt.
Her voice thick, uneven, she repeated. ‘Athena. The way you behaved this morning.’ Eyes bleak, full of so much hurt, the dark lashes damp and spiky, knowing she should not ask, knowing she had to, she turned to face him. ‘Is that how it was with her?’
He stiffened, went very still, and those heavy-lidded eyes, sexy eyes, suddenly held no expression at all. Without a word, he straightened, caught her against him, stared grimly down into her surprised face, and kissed her with unyielding brutality. Shoving her away, he ordered flatly, ‘Now you can make comparisons. And if one word, one sentence, one intimation gets into the Press, I will make you wish you’d never been born.’ Opening the door, remote, almost dignified, he left, closed it quietly behind him.
‘I already do,’ she whispered. There was a hard lump in her chest, a thickness in her throat. Tears trembled on her lashes, and were hastily wiped away. She heard his. footsteps retreat down the corridor, then silence. Don’t think, Paris. Just don’t think about it. Snatching her hands away from her mouth, where they had wandered without her knowledge, and with a determination she hadn’t known she possessed, she dragged out her suitcase and quickly packed. Collecting her toilet things from the bathroom like an automaton, she shoved them all in. Such a fool, she told herself. Such a very silly fool. And she still wanted him. The Oliver of yesterday. And Oliver was out of her league. Had always been out of her league.
She’d been all right until she met him, happy, contented, philosophical, and now look at her. Behaving in a way that was totally foreign to her nature. And now he would hate her more, because he thought she and Athena had been conspiring against him. The way she should hate him, for using her. And because she had reminded him that he had once used her sister in a similar way. Or her sister had used him. It didn’t matter which, really, did it? Only that it had happened. And it was all so silly, because she didn’t want an actor, anyway. And he certainly didn’t want her.
With a big, painful sigh, not knowing what she thought any more, not knowing what the truth of any of it was, she glanced emptily round, tried to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, and, with her scattered emotions only barely in control, she picked up her case and handbag and walked down to the front desk. Her bill had already been paid, by George, the receptionist told her with a smile. He’d left about an hour ago, and left Paris a note. Handing it across, the receptionist added that the others had also left. Paris was the last. Appropriate, she supposed. All her life, she’d come last. Shut up, Paris, self-pity is disgusting, and infinitely boring. Neither was it true. Collecting her boots and mac, she thanked the girl for all she’d done, and went out to her car.
It hurt, it was difficult, but it was dumb. It was also over. She could go .home, try to forget him. And if George sent an invitation for a private viewing of the film…Remembering the note, she unfolded it. Just a few lines to thank her once again and wish her well, saying that he would recommend her to others, use her himself if the need arose. Hoping very much that the need wouldn’t, she switched on the engine, pulled out of the car park and headed for the airport.
The same weather that had blanketed Portugal still blanketed England, and, feeling unutterably depressed, a little bit fragile, a little bit airsick from the turbulent flight, she caught the train to Victoria, and then got a cab to her flat in South Kensington. Feeling tired, slightly jaded, she gave her parked car a critical glance, saw no dents, mentally apologised to her sister who’d been using it for even expecting that there might have been, humped her case up the three front steps, and found Oliver waiting there. Staring at him in shock, she demanded raggedly, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you,’ he said grimly. Grabbing her case from her lax hand, he demanded even more grimly, ‘Keys?’
Too surprised to resist, she handed them over.
He opened the door, dumped her case in the hall, and waited with almost derisive patience for her to enter, then closed the door behind her.
‘I don’t want you here,’ she exclaimed despairingly.
‘Tough. We have to talk.’
‘No, we don’t!’ Fighting for control, composure, she briefly closed her eyes, opened them and forced herself to actually look at him. At his shockingly handsome, set face. Determination gritted his strong jaw, a militant light slitted his eyes, and she desperately fought to summon up her initial dislike, squash all awareness, memory. ‘Very well,’ she agreed rigidly in the face of obduracy that she had no way of moving. ‘What is it that I can do for you?’
‘Stop behaving like a social hostess for a start. Which way’s the lounge? Through here?’ Without waiting for an answer, he walked along the hall and opened the door at the end. The kitchen. ‘This’ll do.’
‘No, it won’t! I don’t want you here, Oliver!’ Angry, frustrated, desperate to be alone, she strode after him. ‘Which part are we playing now?’ she asked bitterly.
‘Shut up, Paris. Just shut up!’
‘No! We said all that had to be said in Espinho!’
‘You said all you had to say in Espinho,’ he corrected flatly, ‘and now I want clarification! You seemed to be labouring under some——’
‘I wasn’t labouring under anything!’ she denied agitatedly. ‘You don’t want me! I don’t want you! In which case there’s nothing more to be said!’
‘There’s a great deal to be sai——Ignore it,’ he ordered as the telephone shrilled and she turned to automatically answer it.
‘No.’ Returning to the hall, she snatched up the receiver, listened, turned stiffly to look at him. ‘It’s for you.’
His face even grimmer, he snatched it out of her hand, barked at the unfortunate Henry on the other end. ‘Damn!’ he exploded. ‘All right, all right…’ Letting out a bitter sigh, he replaced the receiver. ‘I have to go.’
Good, hung unsaid above her.
‘But I’ll be back,’ he promised with a forbidding smile that owed absolutely nothing to humour or friendliness. She had thought she’d seen him in all his moods, whether acted or not—she hadn’t seen this one, nor ever wanted to again. He snatched open the front door and left, slamming it behind him.
All the nervous energy draining out of her, she slumped against the wall, wished there were a magic carpet to spirit her away forever out of his orbit, determined that if he did return, she would never be in—and had no way of knowing how prophetic that wish might be. Feeling drained, almost ill, she shrugged out of her coat, tossed it across her case, and went to switch the central heating on. She felt very cold. A hollow, horrible feeling inside, she walked into the lounge, shoved her hands into her skirt pocket, and discovered the credit card that Athena had thrust at her. Staring down at it in renewed despair, she tossed it on to the mantelshelf. Would it never end? This nightmare? And the Green Card had to be paid off in full, didn’t it? They had no credit facility like the others. How much? she wondered fearfully. A thousand pounds? Two thousand? Oh, no, not that much, please, please, not that much. And it wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t fair. When was it to be her turn for the cherry? Never?
Staring round her at her lovely lounge, at the pot plant that had been moved, at the photo of Athena and Chris that had been prominently displayed on the cabinet, she wanted to weep. She loved this flat: large, airy, a wide entrance hall; two bedrooms, one en suite; a large kitchen and bathroom; French doors on to a small terrace; she’d scraped and saved to be able to afford it after she’d left Rupert, and now it all seemed spoilt. Might even have to give it up. Might, she tried to reassure herself. Maybe she was panicking unnecessarily; maybe Athena hadn’t used her card to pay for her flight…Maybe. And in the forefront of her mind, on top of the debts, the mess Athena had left, was that whispering little voice that said ‘both sisters’, over and over again.
What had he wanted? Why had he come? To explain? But she didn’t want him to explain. Didn’t want anything any more. And if the phone hadn’t rung? She must remember to thank Henry if she ever saw him again, for saving her. Moving a pile of glossy magazines off the sofa, she sat down, stared blankly before her. Good old Paris, there to be trodden on, picked up and dropped like an old shoe. There to be used. All your own fault, Paris. Yes. Hardly a comforting thought. And how in God’s name was she to pay everything off? And then there would be the phone bill, because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t persuade herself that Athena wouldn’t have rung the States. More than once, probably. And Athena didn’t keep conversations short, did she? Especially if it wasn’t her own telephone she was using. No. The only things she kept short were conversations with her sister. And the affair with Oliver. Brief, but electric.
A flash of anguish on her plain face, she tried to dismiss it, and couldn’t. With a despairing little cry, she buried her face in her hands, gave in to her misery and cried as though her heart might really break.
And, over the next few weeks, with the stubbornness and determination that coloured her life, she pulled herself together, wiped away wasted tears, took every job that came along—not only in an effort to clear her debts, but to clear her mind of Oliver. She told no one about her troubles, just quietly tried to sort it all out, although it was extraordinarily hard to disguise the nervous tension, the worry.
And Oliver did not come.
December brought no let-up. Bills continued to accumulate at a frightening rate, and by the middle of the month, working all the hours she could fit in, she felt wrung out, drained. Not only was she working for the agency, but taking on any private commissions that came along. Good interpreters were always in demand, especially with so many foreign businesses starting up in Europe, English businesses getting a foothold abroad, and, although she was managing to pay her mortgage, her day-to-day expenses, she knew she would only be able to pay off the interest charges on her credit cards when those bills came home to roost, not tackle the larger amounts. And soon there would be Christmas presents to buy; she’d already had a Christmas card from Athena and Chris, but nothing else, and Christmas cards, no matter how delightful, didn’t pay bills. And then the telephone bill arrived, which, as she’d suspected it would be, was astronomical. Not only had Athena rung the States, but Chris had rung her, reversing the charges.
Staring down at it, almost in disbelief, she wanted to scream. She’d lost weight, weight she could ill afford to lose. She’d had a crashing headache for the past week which no amount of aspirins seemed to shift—and her period was late. Frightened, worried, she wished she could retreat to her bed, drag the covers over her head and wait for it all to go away—only of course she couldn’t, because it wouldn’t. Shoving the bill on to the hall table, she shrugged into her coat, and left.
Returning home late, because the business meeting for which she’d been translating had gone on longer than expected, she stumbled wearily out of the cab they’d paid for, and wondered if she actually had the strength to climb the three steps to her front door. The pain, which had centred over her left eye, was nigh on unbearable, and she was forced to keep that eye closed in an effort to minimise it. Reaching the railing that fronted the little gardens, she rested there for a moment, groped for her key, kept her breathing shallow, because even breathing hurt, and only then became aware of the dark shadow that stood before her front door. A man.
He moved, began to descend the steps towards her, and, fighting to keep her wits about her, keep the pain at bay for just a little bit longer, she slowly straightened, gripped her keys tight in her hand.