The Temptation Trap

‘He gave me Rose’s letters in return.’

‘How wonderful,’ said Henrietta Carey, the catch in her voice plainly audible down the line. ‘I can’t wait to read them. What did you think of Harry and his letters?’

‘Quite a man. Poor Rose. Poor Harry, too. Apparently he never married.’

‘How sad. Did you like Ewen Fraser, by the way?’

‘Yes,’ said Rosanna with perfect truth. ‘He’s—rather charming.’

‘Are you going to see him again?’

‘No, Mother.’

‘Have you heard from David lately?”

‘Yes, of course. He rang on Sunday, as usual. He’s working very hard.’

‘I’m sure he is, darling. Sam sends his love, by the way.’

‘Is he well?’

‘Fighting fit. He told you to come with us next time.’

After talking to her parents the house seemed empty to Rosanna. She’d slept very badly after Ewen’s departure the night before, burning with guilt over the disloyalty to David. But it was only a kiss, she told herself. David would understand. Not that she was going to tell 34 him, just in case he didn’t. News like that didn’t travel well.

In spite of her restless night she’d been awake at first light, and the day stretched emptily in front of her. Which was what she’d longed for last week when she was working like a dog for Charlie, she reminded herself irritably, so she’d better make the most of it, and start on some serious research for her novel.

A visit to the local library provided her with a stack of helpful literature, fact and fiction, including Siegfried Sassoon’s account of life in the trenches. And on the way home Rosanna called into a bookshop and bought a copy of Savage Dawn. Just out of curiosity.

From now on, thought Rosanna dryly, she could hardly complain about having nothing to do.

She resisted the temptation to read Ewen’s book first. Instead she went out into the garden with a picnic lunch and started on Sassoon’s memoirs to get herself in the mood.

Rosanna read all afternoon and evening, regularly dipping into the factual, pictorial accounts alongside Sassoon’s graphic, understated account of trench warfare. She ate her supper while she read, and made notes and drank endless mugs of tea and coffee. By eight in the evening her eyes were protesting and she was so stiff from sitting in one position she had a long, leisurely soak in the bath, watched television for an hour or so, then locked up and went to bed with Ewen’s book.

His style was spare, but so evocative. The African heat fairly sizzled from the pages as she read. Rosanna was drawn to the soldier hero from the first, and found herself identifying with the woman he loved to such a degree that her heart began hammering during the first love scene between them. Afterwards she lay awake in the dark for hours, shaken by the fact that Ewen’s written word conjured up his own lovemaking all too vividly. She burned with guilt, furious with herself for responding so helplessly. She was going to marry David Norton. She’d known David for ever, and his lovemaking was very… Very what? Rosanna let out a deep, irritated sigh. At the moment she couldn’t remember what it was like. Whereas she could feel Ewen Fraser’s kisses on her mouth even now.

Next morning Rosanna was up early again, in need of exercise before any more reading. To her surprise she found two letters addressed to her amongst her parents’ mail. One, as expected, was from David, but the writing on the other envelope was unfamiliar. She made herself read every word of David’s cheery, affectionate missive before she opened the other letter, her heart skipping a beat when she saw Ewen’s signature. He began rather formally by thanking her for his uncle’s letters, and the evenings Rosanna had given up to help him with his research. Then he went on to say how grateful he was to Harry Manners for leading him to a meeting with Rose Norman’s granddaughter.

In another way I regret it. Deeply. You were right. I am haunted. But not by Rose Norman. I can’t sleep for thoughts of you, Rosanna. I keep seeing your face, feeling your lips parting under mine, the warmth of your delectable body in my arms.

He went on in the same vein for several more lines, then signed himself simply as ‘Ewen’. Rosanna stared blindly at the black, slanted script of what could only be described as a love letter. Lust, not love, she told herself scornfully. Ewen Fraser had merely taught her a chemistry lesson, amazing her by her response to a virtual stranger. And for no particular reason that she could fathom. Ewen was no macho he-man bursting with testosterone. Nevertheless there was something lethally attractive about his tall, loose-limbed body, and the wide, expressive mouth that knew so well how to kiss a girl senseless… She took a deep breath, made herself some coffee, then went out for a run in the park to burn off feelings roused by a few words on paper. Clever devil, she thought bitterly. No wonder his books sold.

Next morning Rosanna received a second letter from Ewen, telling her how he was getting on with his book and asking about the progress of hers. And once more he ended with a few pulse-quickening lines which left her shaken and restless, and in need of a longer run than usual before she could settle to her research. Afterwards she went round to the Claytons’ house and used Charlie’s machine to send Ewen a fax, telling him to stop writing to her. And to her surprise, and utterly savage disappointment, he did.

On Saturday, a week later, Rosanna went round to the flat in Bayswater to collect some clothes, and found Louise on her way out to spend the weekend with a new man. This was definitely the one, said Louise, starry-eyed, but Rosanna had heard that one before. Often. She laughed affectionately, wished Louise good luck, then went off to do some solitary window-shopping. After a visit to the cinema later on Rosanna finally went home, feeling thoroughly out of sorts. There had been no more letters from Ewen, and none from David, either. He rang her instead, to apologise for lack of time to write, and promised to come home for a holiday soon. And, to make matters worse, she missed Ewen’s brief, passionate notes far more than she missed David’s accounts of life in Boston.

On impulse Rosanna rang David’s Boston number, but a recorded message was her only reward. She left a brief greeting and rang off, feeling restless and lonely, resigned to a Saturday evening with only the television and a novel for company.

When the phone rang later she was in the kitchen, trying to whip up the enthusiasm to make herself something to eat. She brightened, and raced into the hall to answer it. ‘Hi, David!’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Rosanna,’ said a deep, husky voice very different from David Norton’s. But just as recognisable.

‘Who is this?’ she said, after a pause.

His laugh raised the hairs down her spine. ‘Ewen. As you well know.’

‘Hello, Ewen. This is a surprise. How are you?’

‘All the better for talking to you, Rosanna. Though I didn’t expect to at this time on a Saturday night.’

‘Why not?’

‘I was sure you’d be out, socialising somewhere.’

‘Louise is otherwise engaged.’

‘And is she the only one you go out with?’

‘No. I have another friend, Maxine, but she’s on holiday.’

‘You mean that while the good doctor’s in the States you do without male company of any kind?’

‘Not necessarily. Sometimes I see old college friends. But no one’s around at the moment.’

‘In that case would he object if you had dinner with me?’

‘I have no idea. Besides, it’s me you should be asking, not David.’

‘I am asking you, Rosanna. Will you?’

Rosanna wanted very badly to say yes. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said at last.

‘Why not?’

‘You can ask that, after the letters you sent me?’

‘Were they so offensive?’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Not offensive, exactly. But you shouldn’t have written to me like that.’

‘I haven’t since you told me to stop.’

‘I know. Thank you.’

‘Something’s wrong, Rosanna,’ he persisted. ‘Tell me.’

‘You’ll laugh,’ she said, depressed.