Another Life Page 13

  He finished the sandwich and asked for another. Without acknowledging his game—something she was oddly loath to do—Sara had little choice but to give in to him. All her body was on fire as she fed him. The contact with lips and tongue continued, the movements sensual and outrageous— and outwardly innocent, as if any contact was purely coincidental.

  Sara drew out the conversation for as long as she could. 'Did you know that a Cape governor once owned that set?' she asked, as Clyde's tongue once more touched her hand.

  'Mm-hm. I imagine you told me.'

  'It's really very valuable. Ouch!' She drew back enraged as one finger was caught between his teeth and nipped. 'Why did you do that?'

  'To stop you acting like a prim miss.'

  'I… I'm not acting,' she said weakly. 'I… I thought you were interested in your purchase.'

  'You want me,' he said quietly.

  She dropped her hand, letting the sandwich fall. 'Do you always have to be so direct?'

  'And I want you.'

  'Clyde, don't…' She stopped, tears pricking at her eyes, not knowing how to go on, not even knowing what she wanted to say.

  'Don't what?' he asked very quietly. 'Don't say what's in both our minds? That we want to make love?'

  She shook her head violently. 'No…'

  'Yes, Sara. You've changed, I've changed. But that hasn't changed, that spark that was always between us.' And then, fiercely, as she shook her head again, 'You know damn well that's the truth.'

  'Yes…' She had not known she would agree until the word emerged.

  The car jerked, then drew smoothly to a halt at a viewpoint a few yards farther on. At this time of the day there were no cars parked on the sandy verge.

  Sara did not resist him as he twisted in his seat and put his other arm around her. She did not turn away as his head descended and his mouth came down on hers. There was a hunger inside her that had been with her a long time, and for once she made no outward pretence of denying it.

  His kiss was as brief as it was passionate. 'Damn!' Clyde swore as he lifted his head. 'Wheel's in the way. Move over, Sara.'

  He did not release his hold on her as she shifted in her seat, but moved with her. They turned to face each other simultaneously, coming together in the manner of two people drawn by a common need. His mouth did not go directly to hers, but found the different features of her face instead— her eyes, the curve of a cheek, the lobe of an ear and the skin beneath it. His lips played on her lightly, tantalisingly, exploring and tasting with a sensuous life of their own. Sara put her hands on either side of his head, feeling the chiselled contours beneath her palms, the springy hair between her fingers. Unlike all the other times, there was no sense of holding back, of maintaining a pretence. There was only the wonderful joyousness of holding him.

  His lips left her face and went to her throat, planting tiny kisses along a column that had never seemed more sensitive, lingering a moment in the hollow where the pulse beat too fast, then ascending once more. When his mouth came down on hers at last she was ready for him, her lips opening willingly beneath his.

  There was no lightness now in his kiss, just a passionate thirst that could not be slaked. As his lips began an exploration of the sweetness of her mouth, his hands went beneath her blouse, pushing it upwards, moving over the bare skin. One hand slid down over her hips, the other curved forward to cup a small firm breast in its palm.

  As he caught the nipple between his fingers, stroking it, letting it grow hard, Sara gave a small cry. The pleasure he stirred in her was exquisite; it was also so intense as to bring pain. She was only just hanging on to the barest vestige of control, enough to know that if they did not pull apart now they would not be able to do so later.

  'Someone will see us,' she managed to whisper when Clyde lifted his mouth to draw breath.

  'Right.' His voice was husky with emotion. 'It wouldn't do for us to be caught on the highway making love. Not the first time we've had to stop for that reason!'

  He was behind the wheel once more, starting the ignition, when he said, 'We would have made love. All the way. Had we not been in the car there'd have been no stopping. You know that, Sara, don't you?'

  She knew it. She knew that she could not have stopped him, because she would first have had to find a way of stopping herself. She was on her own side of the seat now, a small figure, bereft at the sudden isolation despite the fact that she had been the one to suggest it.

  'Next time we won't stop,' Clyde said very definitely. 'You know that too.'

  The car was fleet and smooth. A mile had been covered when Sara spoke again. 'What about Andrea?' she asked in a low tone. 'What would Andrea have said?'

  'Forget about Andrea.' There was a strange inflection in Clyde's voice. 'Just for today, please forget about Andrea.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  She had not thought about Andrea once, Sara realised as she dressed for the evening. The day had been so perfect that there had been no time to brood.

  Clyde had been the old Clyde she had once known—devastatingly handsome and compelling male as always, intelligent and devil-may-care, but also fun to be with. As for herself—when they had walked through the streets of Cape Town, shopping as they could not do in the village, and then later, sunbathing on the beach, Sara had found it hard to believe that quite so much had happened in her life since the days when she had been a busy dancer engaged to be married to the man who had taken her emotions by storm.

  Clyde had reserved two rooms at a modern shore-front hotel in Sea Point. His room adjoined hers, and Sara wondered if he had planned it that way. In her present euphoric state of mind she would not have minded if he had.

  Bring something pretty, he had said, when he had first mentioned the trip. Looking at herself in the mirror, Sara was satisfied that her choice had been a good one. The Grecian-styled dress of deep jade did wonderful things for her. Her hair looked darker, glossier, her colouring was more vivid. Her figure in the soft folds of the dress was at once delicate and intensely feminine.

  In the next room Clyde would be changing from the casual clothes he had worn during the day. Sara could imagine him pulling a silk shirt over the bronzed body, running a comb through hair that felt vital and springy to the touch. Just the thought of him dressing only yards distant from her was enough to intensify the sense of anticipation which had been with her all day. She had not realised until this moment quite how much she had been looking forward to this evening.

  At a knock she opened the door and Clyde stepped into the room. He looked very tall in a well-cut grey suit, distinguished and as devilishly attractive as she had expected. His eyes darkened as he took in her own appearance, and then as their eyes met, and he reached for her hands, she felt the adrenalin pumping through her system.

  'You're beautiful.' Simple words, but his voice was husky.

  In another moment she would be in his arms. Already she felt the treacherous longing sweep her. She remembered what he had said in the car; next time there would be no stopping. The weakness in her legs, the pounding of her heart in her chest, told her that if he touched her now she would be powerless even to ask him to stop.

  'Your friends,' she said unsteadily, as he drew her to him.

  'You have an incredible sense of timing.' His tone had become mocking. 'But for once you happen to be right. My friends will be waiting.'

  They had dinner in a small sophisticated restaurant on the sea-front. As Sara and Clyde walked to their table, many eyes turned their way. The interested glances were for them both, as a couple, Sara knew, and felt a pang of unhappiness at the knowledge that the image they presented was sham, a relationship that could not last beyond this one stolen weekend in time.

  Clyde's friends joined them minutes later, and Sara liked them on sight. Their names were Graham and Ann. Newly-married, they were both doctors not long in the city. It was soon evident that they did not know that Sara had ever had any importance in Clyde's life, and for that she was gratefu
l. If they knew Andrea, and wondered at Clyde's appearance with another woman, they made no comment.

  The conversation was lively, the dinner delicious. Sara was almost sorry when Clyde glanced at his watch before calling for the bill. She had not been so stimulated for a long time.

  It was only as they were entering the Theatre that it occurred to her that she did not know the nature of what they were to see.

  'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' Clyde matter-of-factly answered her question.

  'The play?' she asked, through parched lips.

  'The ballet.'

  'No!' She stared at him. Her expression was one of horror. There were people behind her, crowds making their way towards the auditorium, pushing past her. She did not notice them.

  'No!' she said again.

  'Come along, Sara.' It was a command, though strangely there was no harshness in his tone.

  Shaking her head, she pivoted blindly, oblivious of the crowds, of Clyde's friends. There was only one thought: she had to get away.

  Fingers gripped her arm just above the elbow— outwardly a friendly gesture, one that would not cause any bystander to comment, but Sara felt steel in the touch, the unyielding will.

  She looked up at him again. 'I can't! Clyde, please…'

  Through the blur of tears she did not register the watchfulness in eyes that were now dark as a twilight sky.

  'Come along, Sara,' he ordered again. With his firmness there was surprising gentleness, as if he sensed her distress and felt in some way sorry for it. And then, as she was about to protest further, he said so softly that only she could hear him, 'Graham and Ann are just behind us. They'll be wondering… We'll talk afterwards.'

  Perhaps she could have stood her ground. Later she would wonder what would have happened if she had done so. But in those moments in the thronging auditorium it was as if all freedom of choice had deserted her, so that she had no alternative but to let the hand on her arm and the momentum of the crowds propel her along.

  They were shown to their seats. Sara sat between Clyde and Ann. A buzz of anticipation filled the air. It was strange to be experiencing the pre-performance excitement from the front of the curtain rather than from behind; despite her agitation Sara registered that fact.

  To the left of her, Clyde was quiet. Sara did not notice that it was a grim kind of quietness. To the right of her Ann was leafing through her programme.

  'I've heard this is a fantastic production,' she said.

  'I've heard that too.' Somehow Sara man-aged to say the words.

  No mention of Peter Burod; perhaps in the medical world of Ann and Graham his name had no meaning. It was evident that Ann had not made the connection between Sara's name and that of the choreographer. It was evident also that Clyde's friends did not know that she had once been a ballet dancer.

  Ann was still talking, but the words washed over Sara. There was only one thought in her mind: Clyde had trapped her—knowingly, deliberately. For reasons of his own he had led her into a situation from which she could not escape.

  She glanced at him. The dim light of the auditorium showed a profile that was stern and strong. Hawk-like, Sara thought, and shivered. The moments in the car earlier that day, when she had fed him sandwiches and felt the sensuous touch and nibble of lips and tongue, seemed more than just hours ago. Nothing sensuous about him now, just a sense of waiting, of grimness. The hawk delighting in its victim's helplessness.

  The lights darkened, and the first bars of the overture sounded through the auditorium. Then the curtain rose on the first act of Peter Burod's A Midsummer Night's Dream.

  Sara felt tension building inside her as the ballet began. Any ballet, she knew, would cause her pain. But this particular ballet, one in which she had danced herself, created a special anguish. Memories welled inside her, flooding her. Rehearsals, with Madame Olga controlling the dancers like puppets. Peter, always in the background, ready to advise with an interpretation or an explanation.

  Clyde, coming backstage, wanting to meet the dancer who had caught his eye and his fancy. The beginnings of a courtship that had flamed into a love she had not anticipated.

  Clyde had known that the evening would bring pain. He had chosen this ballet carefully—for what purpose he alone knew. But even Clyde could not guess quite the extent of Sara's pain. For he did not seem to know that she could never dance again, and therefore could not understand her torment at watching her former colleagues go through the motions that she would never perform again.

  A lump had formed in her throat, hard and painful. Tears had gathered behind her eyelids, and she tried to keep them under control. She would not give Clyde the satisfaction of seeing her cry. But the tears began to spill nevertheless.

  And then to her horror she began to weep. It was a weeping she could not control. A quiet weeping; not a sound escaped her, but the small body was rocked in spasms which she could not suppress.

  She felt Clyde reach for one of her hands. She did not stop to wonder whether he offered comfort at a reaction that went beyond anything he had imagined. Abruptly she pulled her hand away.

  Neither had her emotion escaped Ann. 'Sara… Sara, are you all right?' the girl at her side whispered.

  Through her tears she tried to nod. She took a jerky breath. Somehow she must regain control. But the weeping grew stronger.

  'Sara…' Ann whispered again, her tone full of concern.

  Sara could not answer. Nor could she sit here a moment longer. All her movements jerky now, she got to her feet, pushed past Ann and Graham, and hurried up the dark aisle.

  She collapsed on a bench in the foyer. And now her weeping was no longer as silent as it had been. Great sobs racked her body.

  'Sara!' Clyde's voice, urgent, concerned. Clyde's arms folded around her. 'Sara darling, what is it?'

  She heard the endearment, but it made no impact on her frenzied mind. She tried to twist away from him, pushing her fists against his chest.

  'Let me go!' she sobbed. 'Take me back to the hotel.'

  He hesitated just a moment. 'All right.' His tone was strangely subdued. 'I'll just go back inside and tell the others we're going. Wait for me, Sara.'

  Wait for me… The words made an impact where the endearment had not. Wait for me—an order. Did Clyde think he could manipulate every facet of her life?

  It would be a few minutes before he returned to the foyer. Enough time to let her make her own getaway.

  Out of the building, and half a block up to the taxi rank where a vehicle was standing. A minute after Clyde had left her, Sara was on her way back to the hotel.

  She was in her room and the door was locked when he knocked. She lay on the bed and looked at the door. Her weeping had stopped and now she felt numb, drained.

  Clyde knocked again, then again. Then he called, 'Sara, let me in!'

  She lay silent.

  'Open the door! Immediately!' And then, when she did not answer, 'Sara! I know you're in there. Open up!'

  'Go away,' she called, after a moment.

  'Open the door!'

  'I don't want to see you.'

  'You will open up.' Even through the barrier of the door she could hear the threat in his tone. 'If you don't, I'll get in anyway.'

  He would do just that, she knew, as she got off the bed. Clyde would always do what he wanted, get what he wanted. Strangely, people would want to give him his way. She had seen the force of his magnetism during their courtship, had experienced it again later. People would always be drawn to Clyde Montgomery—men, women; especially women.

  But now was not the moment to contemplate the mystery of his charisma. More than ever she must be on her guard, must think clearly.

  She opened the door just a crack. 'I don't want to see you.'

  'I know.' Easily he stepped past her. 'We have to talk all the same.'

  Sara stared up at him. Did he have no shame at all? No feelings of remorse? He stood very close to her, tall and lithe and muscular, compellingly masculine
. She took a careful step backwards.

  'We have nothing to say,' she said quietly. 'Leave me, Clyde.'

  'What's the matter, Sara?'

  'You know damn well!' she flared at him. 'You led me into a trap!'

  'Only to get you to break out of the shell you've built around yourself.'

  'So you admit you tricked me!'

  'I admit I wasn't honest with you.' He reached for her hands. She tried to pull them away, but he folded them in his, palm against palm, his fingers curling round to her wrist. 'Come and sit down, Sara.'

  'No,' she said firmly, and wondered despairingly why even now, when she was at her angriest, her pulses should be racing at the sensuousness of his touch. 'Just tell me why you tricked me.'

  'It seemed the right thing. Perhaps I was wrong…'

  His eyes were very dark in the lamplight, their expression bleak. His skin seemed stretched tautly over his cheekbones and beneath his tan there was a hint of pallor. It came to Sara that she had shocked him, that for the first time she had caused Clyde to feel uncertain, and she knew a moment of satisfaction.

  'You were wrong,' she said flatly.

  'Come and sit with me,' he said again. 'Then we'll talk.'

  She pushed against the coaxing hands. For a few moments she thought her persistence had won over his demands. When he lifted her against him, her surprise was so great that she lay still for a moment, her breathing erratic. By the time she had regained her sense of outrage he had put her down on the bed.

  'I want to help you,' he said, before she could speak. 'You've erected a wall, Sara. Morning Glow is only the physical part of it. There's a mental one too. It's that one I wanted to tear down.'

  'By taking me to a ballet that I didn't want to see,' she said bitterly. 'You're a doctor, Clyde, you're not a psychiatrist.'

  'Psychiatry had no part in what I tried to do tonight.' A hand cupped her chin, drawing up her face, forcing her to look at him. 'I was acting simply as a man who was once engaged to you, who thought he understood you.'

  If he had used the word 'love' she would have broken down and told him everything, Sara knew.