Edge of Paradise (9 page)

‘I don't think I could eat anything.'

‘That's up to you. You'll put on a wrap or something and come out and watch me eat if you don't want anything yourself.'

He turned and left the room with an abruptness that broke her calm like a plate shattering on a stone floor. She dragged her nightgown back into place and lay back on her pillow, her composure in pieces. She couldn't understand what it was about. She thought he'd got angry at her when she turned away from him, rather than at something she'd said. What had he expected her to do? Invite him into her bed? Did he think that because he'd engaged her to do his typing he had an automatic right to have sex with her? But then he'd accused her of being without morals and principles. And what could he have meant by ‘even in your game'? Their conversations never went anywhere. They always seemed to be talking at cross-purposes. Nothing made sense. She couldn't understand any of it.

* * *

It was raining. It had rained for days. Ally sat at her desk, the keys of her typewriter idle as she stared out at the blighted English sky and the dripping spectacle of polished rooftops and pavements, the swift moving convoy of umbrellas and heads bowed under turned-up collars, and thought about Catherine soaking up the Bahamian sunshine. She was nice enough to hope that Catherine was having a super time, and human enough to feel a little envious that she wasn't sharing it with her.

The door of Allycats opened and she dragged her thoughts from luxury living, coral sands and a fantasy flight of flamingos over a blue lagoon, and looked up to see a man. He was quite tall and pale complexioned, not unattractive in a homely sort of way, with kindly eyes behind brown-rimmed spectacles.

‘Good morning,' she said brightly, not unhappy to be diverted from her thoughts. ‘Can I help you?'

‘Are you Miss Mason—Catherine Mason?'

‘No, I'm Alison Butler, Ally, Catherine's partner in Allycats. Catherine's lapping it up in the Bahamas at the moment.'

‘On a day like this I'm inclined to say, lucky girl. I didn't particularly want to see Miss Mason. I'm sure you can look after me just as well. I asked for your partner because her name was given to me by a mutual
acquaintance
who said I might be able to talk you into doing some typing for me.'

‘Please keep talking. We've only recently started up in business and, well—this might not be in my own best interest, but at least it's honest—we need all the work we can get, Mr . . . ?'

‘Chance. Lucian Chance.'

Ally's mouth fell open in dismay. ‘Not Lucky Chance? The author?'

‘For my sins, yes.'

‘B-but . . . it's not possible . . . oh
no
!' she gasped out, putting her hands to her face.

‘It's all right. You don't have to say another word. I understand perfectly.'

‘You do?' Ally said, gulping hugely.

‘It's not an unusual situation, not to me. It happens all the time.'

‘It does?'

‘Yes. So don't look so horror-struck. I can't keep a decent secretary. I have a terrible job getting my manuscripts typed. People say they will before they've read my work, then dash out to buy one of my books to be able to say they've read me—and then immediately back out of the deal. It's obviously the other way 'round with you. Apparently you have read my books and so you're saying no to begin with. I can understand that. Someone like you would find it too embarrassing to type the sort of stuff I write.'

‘You've got it all wrong, Mr. Chance. You
don't
understand at all. I wouldn't find it one little bit embarrassing. I'm a fan of yours. I've read every book you've written and I'm waiting avidly for the next. I'll admit that I get my eyebrows singed from time to time while reading some of the more intimate love scenes, but typing them wouldn't bother me. I've enough common sense to know that if you toned down the sex and left all the other hard-punching stuff in, you'd upset the balance. And it's never for sensationalism, but always essential to the plot. And in any case,' she said, smiling shyly, ‘I bet it's the parts that singe the eyebrows that get a second reading.'

‘You could just be right, Miss Butler.'

She'd correct him later and tell him it was Mrs. Butler and explain that she was a widow. Now she said, ‘Call me Ally, it's friendlier.'

‘I'd prefer Alison, if I may? But only on the understanding that you call me Lucian. If you're not squeamish about tackling my work and not likely to fall into a purple faint over your typewriter, would you mind telling me just what it is that's upsetting you?'

‘We thought, Catherine and I, that Lucky Chance was a purely fictitious name. There's been a mix-up somewhere along the line. Let's try to figure it out. Starting with—I know! I believe you attended the same party. Well, Lois, your hostess, pointed a man out to Catherine—Lucky Chance, the writer—and mentioned that he might be interested in
sending
some work our way. Catherine must have latched on to the wrong man.' Her brow crinkled and she said without much hope, ‘There couldn't have been two writers at the party, I suppose?'

‘I didn't meet the other one, if there were, so it's doubtful.'

Ally nodded soberly. ‘I'm compelled to agree. It would have been a common bond and Lois would have been bound to introduce you if there had been a fellow writer there. So—if he didn't engage Catherine to type his manuscript, what did he engage her to do?'

* * *

Catherine knew that it was no good skulking in bed. Paul had said breakfast in five minutes and if she didn't present herself on the balcony he was capable of fetching her. Better to go voluntarily than be dragged there by force.

Five minutes gave her time to brush her teeth and splash water on her face, but barely allowed her to sort out something to wear. The intimacy of having breakfast with him while still wearing her nightgown, even with the addition of her robe, was not to be contemplated.

She opened her suitcase and carefully extracted a white sundress and, without wasting time on digging out a strapless bra, slid it hurriedly over her head. The skirt was full,
with
patch pockets set at a jaunty angle. The top gently skimmed her breasts and was dependent on a single length of cotton rope, looped through a ring at the front of the bodice and then tied at the nape of her neck, to stay up. She slid her feet into the canvas mules she'd taken out of her suitcase the night before that doubled as slippers. Half a dozen strokes with her hairbrush and she was as ready as she would ever be. Drawing a deep breath for courage she walked out onto the balcony just as the waiter finished setting the breakfast table and turned to leave.

Her eyes paid compliment to the table setting, the delicate breakfast service and the attractively laid out food: toast, rolls, preserves and fruit, slices of pineapple and papaya. And fruit juice.

She looked up to find that Paul was contemplating her, but his jade green eyes unnervingly registered neither approval nor disapproval, merely viewed her with cold dispassion. She got the feeling that there was still a lot of boiling going on behind that controlled exterior and thought it might be best not to say anything that could trigger his anger again. Of course, that was a somewhat difficult decision when she didn't know what she'd done to make him angry with her in the first place.

‘Sit.' His terse command made her jump—startling her out of her thoughts—and was
easy
to obey. ‘Now eat some breakfast.'

That also wasn't going to be as hard to obey as she would have imagined, not when everything looked so tempting.

She reached for the coffee pot. ‘Shall I pour yours?' she asked tentatively.

‘You might as well do something toward earning that fat check I gave you,' he replied. ‘Black, no sugar.'

To match your mood, she thought, but let herself be guided by the grim look on his face and forced herself to keep up the pretense of seeing nothing amiss. Although how long she could take his strange behavior without losing control and letting fly with her own temper she dared not think. For the time being, until she could work out what this was all about, she thought this was the best way.

She took a sip of her coffee and found that it tasted as good as its tempting aroma had promised it would. She bypassed the rolls, even though their straight-from-the-oven smell was equally tempting, and decided to try the papaya, which she had never tasted before. In appearance it was not all that unlike melon, except that it was a deeper color, a rich orange. A wedge of lemon sat in its scooped out center. Was it for decoration, or was it to . . . ?

‘Squeeze the lemon over the fruit,' Paul said, correctly reading her thoughts.

After following his instruction she dug out a
spoonful
of the fruit. The lemon gave it a lovely tangy flavor. Without this addition it would have been too sweet for her taste, but with it, it was delicious.

When she put her spoon down and sat back in her chair, he said, ‘Is that all you're going to have?' Then he reached for another roll.

Was he being solicitous? Or was he sneering at her because he knew that under the scrutiny of his steely gaze she found it difficult to eat?

‘I've had plenty, thank you,' she said.

‘For what? Are you trying to go into a decline or something? You couldn't eat dinner last night. You said you'd eaten practically nothing on the plane. And what you've eaten just now wouldn't keep a sparrow alive.'

Her chin lifted. ‘Hasn't it occurred to you that my loss of appetite last night and this morning could be your fault?'

‘My fault?'

‘It's unnerving, the way you look at me. I wish you'd stop it.'

‘Stop
looking
at you? First I mustn't touch, now I mustn't look.' No doubt about it, he was definitely ridiculing her. ‘Most girls would consider it an insult if they'd gone to special lengths to look attractive and a man didn't look.'

His emotions were still clamped under ice. It wasn't natural. His anger was too tightly controlled and she was afraid of the consequences if it should suddenly snap. Even
in
her anxiety the implication that she looked attractive to him pleased her, though. But had she gone to special lengths? Surely this white sundress, which, admittedly, she'd bought initially because she thought it would find favor in his eyes, had been the first thing that came to hand? No, that wasn't true. She felt sickened inside because things had reached a sorry state when she tried to lie to herself. The sundress had been in the middle of her suitcase and she'd had to delve for it.

‘You're being deliberately obtuse,' she accused. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘Do I? That's a debatable point.' He rose from his chair and came 'round to her side of the table, then sat on the corner of it, his legs stretched out in front of him. It would have been an innocent posture but for the fact that her chair was next to the balcony rail so that, in effect, he was trapping her.

The feeling of menace was intensified by the cynical way his mouth twisted as he said, ‘Do you deny dressing to please me?'

‘I most certainly do,' she said, feeling that his arrogance justified the lie.

His leg moved a fraction closer to press against hers, yet the strongest feeling of restriction was in her throat as she battled with her thoughts. She was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of the frailty of her own body, which he could crush in his strong hands. She trembled at this never-before-experienced
sensation
of feeling fragile, of being helplessly at the mercy of his strength and virility. His broad shoulders cut off the sun, but her eyes were still dazzled, not by the strong rays, but by the brilliance and incandescence of him, by the impressive force of his personality, which governed her heartbeat, held her breath and possessed her thoughts to the exclusion of all else. The sun warmed her body and gave her life; he had only just entered her life, and yet he had the power to give it a whole new meaning. That was the startling and disquieting realization that stunned her.

A low laugh rumbled from his throat. ‘Whether you dressed to please me or not is immaterial, because you do. Very much. Pretty,' he said, touching the cotton rope that held up her bodice, the laughter increasing as his fingers followed the rope 'round to her nape.

It needed but the slightest tug to disrobe her, and they were both aware of it.

He was teasing her; surely he wouldn't do it. Not out there on the balcony in full daylight. A very private balcony to be sure, but it was still possible that someone might see.

She dared not take the risk. ‘Please don't, Paul. Please remember where we are.'

‘Are you saying that it would be different if we were inside?'

‘No. I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying that we might be seen,' she said, swallowing
nervously.

His eyes were full of macabre enjoyment. ‘And you don't want me to overlook the fact that you aren't wearing a bra?'

Her blush was more apparent than her voice was audible as she said, ‘I didn't think it was that obvious.'

His gaze moved down from her face. ‘It isn't. It was a good guess. It would be interesting to follow this through.' She felt his fingers leave her neck, the rope fastening of her sundress still intact, with so much relief that she felt dizzy. In a clipped voice he added, ‘It's futile to contemplate the matter further, because I don't have the time. I'm running late as it is.'

His words had the advantageous effect of rousing her from her malaise and replacing the look in her eye with one of curiosity.

‘I have a meeting set up which could take time. Within reason, you're free to do what you want. That should please you, knowing that I won't be around to bother you.'