Forbidden Pleasure

‘Have you got sunstroke?’ he asked.

It would have been a pat answer, but she shook her head. Lies didn’t come easily to her. ‘No. I just felt a bit—over-whelmed.’ She couldn’t breathe in the hot room and her skin was too sensitive, too tight. ‘I think I’d rather be outside,’ she said, forcing her voice into something like normality. ‘It’s cooler on the verandah.’

‘All right. Do you need help?’

‘No!’ She tried to soften the blunt refusal. ‘I feel much better now.’

But once outside she realised she needed activity to burn off the adrenalin that still pumped through her body. Looking towards the motor camp, she asked aggressively, ‘Would you like to go for a walk and see how the other half spend their holidays?’

With a keen look he answered crisply, ‘Why not?’

Nothing had changed. Children, hatted and slick with sunscreen, still laughed and called in clear, high voices, still splashed in the chalky water that stretched out to where the lake bed dropped away.

The edge was still as sharp and sudden against the fierce, glinting blue of the deeper water.

Ianthe averted her eyes and concentrated hard on walking through the holidaymakers without giving away how aware she was of the man who strode beside her. Sand crunched beneath their feet. Alex looked around, the fan of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes slightly indented. How old was he? Thirty-three or four, she guessed.

He said, ‘This place reminds me of the village I lived in until I was ten.’

Intrigued, Ianthe was stopped from asking questions by an indefinable reserve in his tone, in the angular, aristocratic line of his profile.

They walked around families, past groups of teenagers indulging in their noisy, unsophisticated courtship rituals, and as they went by Ianthe felt the eyes, some on her, some on Alex. She was accustomed to being watched; it interested her that Alex too had developed a way to deal with onlookers. He didn’t make eye contact, he walked steadily—not fast, not slow—and although he swivelled when a child shrieked behind them he turned away again immediately he realised it was under supervision.

Who was he? She recognised his name, so possibly he had turned up in a newspaper. However, she had a strongly visual memory; if she’d seen a photograph of him she’d have remembered his startling good looks and pale eyes instead of merely being haunted by a vague familiarity.

Yet would any photograph capture the magnetism of his personality, or the aura of uncompromising authority?

Probably not, and she wasn’t going to think about it any more. That way lay danger.

Although she’d snatched up a straw hat as they left the bach, the sun beat down on her shoulders and summoned a rare blue sheen from Alex’s bare head. She should tell him he needed some protection, but it seemed an oddly personal and intimate thing to talk about.

‘You obviously know this place very well,’ Alex commented.

Nodding, she kept her eyes on the low bushes—a mixture of sedges, rushes and sprawling teatree—that scrambled from the pine plantation to the water, effectively marking the limit of the beach. ‘For years I spent every school holiday here with my best friend. Her parents own the bach.’

Once she’d known every inch of the shoreline. In those long, golden, distant summers she and Tricia had spent every day on or in the lake. And now Tricia was a wife and mother, and Ianthe was trying to reassemble her life.

‘We’d better go back,’ she said evenly. ‘It’s swampy in there.’ She glanced down at his feet and added with a spark of malice, ‘You won’t want to get those shoes wet.’

He laughed softly. ‘I’d noticed that I was overdressed,’ he said, turning the tables neatly on her.

Biting her lip, she swivelled, and of course her wretched leg chose just that moment to let her down again. Gasping, she jerked back, but too late. Her sideways lurch had thrown her into the tangle of bushes, and her foot sank into the lake so that water rose halfway up her calf.

Panic, sickening and immediate, clawed at her. For a horrifying second she couldn’t move, until the clamouring terror forced her free of the water. Whimpering, she pushed past Alex, blundering across the hot sand in a desperate rush to reach the safety of solid ground.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE was almost there when hard hands caught her, gripping her cruelly until she stopped fighting and went limp against him, panic giving way to a shamed exhaustion.

‘All right,’ Alex said quietly. ‘It’s all right, Ianthe. You’re safe.’

‘I know,’ she choked, trying to pull away, because it was too easy to surrender mindlessly to his disciplined toughness.

A simple offer of comfort, she told her hammering heart, that was all it was. He’d given her the only things she could take any consolation from—the tempered support of his body, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.

Swiftly he turned, forcing her around so that his broad shoulders sheltered her from any curious stares, then let her go. A quick glance informed her that no one had noticed, and some of the tight knot of humiliation eased.

But when she looked back at Alex she couldn’t escape those enigmatic eyes, eyes that goaded her into muttering, ‘Don’t you pity me.’

Something predatory prowled through the icy depths. ‘Pity you?’ His smile was taut and compelling. ‘I don’t pity you, Ianthe Brown. Far from it.’ Strong fingers bit into her arm, turned her, tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. ‘All right, we’ll walk back in the shade of the trees. What birds do you usually see on the lakes?’

Ianthe forced herself to respond. ‘Dotterels nest in scrapes in the sand, and in spring and autumn the lakes are a staging point for migratory birds.’ As she answered his questions her voice sounded flat and dull, but by the time they got back to the bach the black panic had withdrawn into its lurking limbo on the borders of her mind.

She said, ‘I’d like to sit outside.’

He waited until she’d chosen a shabby, comfortable chair, then leaned against the railing and looked down at her. Without preamble he commanded, ‘Tell me why a woman who’s terrified of the water should choose to stay no more than twenty-five metres away from it.’

She owed him an explanation, but all she could say was a muted, ‘I just have to get used to it again.’

His scrutiny pierced her fragile shell of composure, splintering it into shards. At the end of the most tense silence Ianthe had ever endured, he asked, ‘Haven’t you been able to go in the water since the shark attacked you?’

‘No.’ Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat and went on, ‘It’s not the water. It’s teeth. I dream of dolphins, and they play and smile, and then their smiles turn into teeth and—and—I’m terrified something will catch me and drag me down, and that this time I’ll die.’

‘Ianthe,’ he said deeply, and came across and sat down beside her, took her tense hand in his strong, warm one.

Something snapped inside her. Hastily, indistinctly, she muttered, ‘I’m not scared of water—I can wallow in a bath and clean my teeth without flinching, drive across the Harbour Bridge without turning a hair, even walking along the beach is all right. But if I—well, you saw.’

‘So you came here to get over it?’

Ianthe shivered at the savage irony of his tone. With eyes fixed on the vivid cobalt surface of the lake she said, ‘This is where I learned to swim. Tricia and I splashed around in the shallows, then her mother taught us the strokes and jollied us into swimming properly. It seemed the most natural thing in the world—and so utterly safe. That first summer she wouldn’t let us swim through the wall—it was out there in front of us, tantalising and forbidden. Do you know what I mean?’

‘By the wall? I presume it’s the drop-off into deeper water. I’d noticed it—it’s unusually obvious.’ He spoke with a cool intonation, as though measuring every word he said.

‘The bed of the lake is actually below sea level. That depth and the extreme clarity of the water and the brilliant whiteness of the sand all combine to make the wall.’ Keeping her head averted, she eased her hand away from his grip. Her pulses thudded through the fragile veins at her wrist and she looked at his hand, lean-fingered and competent.

But not relaxed, she thought with a bleak surprise. No, there was tension in those tanned fingers and she could feel it crackle around her. Not that she blamed him; she was probably embarrassing him horribly. No doubt he couldn’t get away fast enough.

Straightening her back, she stared blindly across the verandah and went on, ‘Swimming through it is like breaking through a barrier, free-falling into another dimension. However often I did it I always loved it, that moment when I burst through into the blue. I felt strong and different, the sort of person who could do anything.’

‘You are the sort of person who can do anything,’ he said curtly. ‘This is temporary, a normal response to the trauma of pain and shock and terror.’

Anger ricocheted through her, hot and sudden and fierce. ‘I can’t even put my feet into the water! I’d hoped that coming here would help—after all, the biggest wildlife in this water are eels.’ Her voice bit sardonically into the words. ‘And they’re not noted for ferocious attacks on human beings.’

‘So it hasn’t worked yet. Give it time, and it will.’ He got to his feet and walked across to the rail, leaning against it to look over the lake.

Numbly Ianthe watched the muscles of his thighs flex, the lithe grace as he moved. ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ she said bleakly. ‘You saw me when I tripped. It’s called a panic attack.’

‘You expect too much, too soon. Have you had any counselling?’