Melting Fire. Anne Mather

only that!’ cried Olivia shrilly. ‘Not only sitting around here, waiting for Richard to appear with some foreign guest or other, choosing menus, arranging flowers, making myself attractive for some fat old European, whose wife flaps her skinny breasts at Richard, while I keep her husband entertained!’

      ‘Olivia!’

      ‘Well, it’s true.’ Olivia was unrepentant. ‘Do you think I don’t know what goes on? Do you think I don’t know why Kuriakis is always inviting him aboard his yacht? It’s not Aristotle who wants to see him, it’s Madame Kuriakis! I saw the way she was looking at him the last time they were here. I felt sick, physically sick, and if that’s what Richard expects me to——’

      ‘Olivia, be quiet!’ Bella was impatient now. ‘I will not listen to any more of this! It seems to me that all you’ve developed in France is your imagination, and I’m ashamed to hear a child I’ve looked after and cared for using such language!’ She turned towards the door, and when her hand closed on the handle, she looked back at her. ‘Perhaps you’d better stay in your room,’ she declared coldly. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy feeling sorry for yourself much more here, without any distractions.’

      Contrarily, as soon as the door had closed behind her, Olivia wished she had detained her. Of all the people she knew, Bella was the one she could always turn to, the person who was always there when she needed her. Even yesterday, returning from Paris to find Richard away, she had known the old nursemaid would not have deserted her, and it was painful to think that she was creating the rift between them. But Bella was intensely loyal, not only to her, but to Richard, who had after all claimed her affections first. In her eyes he could do no wrong, and in this instance she was no ally. Nevertheless, she was the nearest thing to a mother Olivia had known during the last fifteen years, and as such she deserved her respect. If only she would try and understand how Olivia was feeling, instead of looking blithely ahead, uncaring of the pitfalls along the way.

      Catching sight of herself in the mirror of her vanity unit, Olivia was appalled at her reflection. Her arms, and the length of leg visible beneath the hem of her denim skirt, blazed with unseemly colour, while her face, unnaturally pale and hollow-cheeked, showed puffy red patches around her eyes and nose. Her hair, rumpled from her sojourn on the bed, stuck out in tufts all over her head, dampened by her sweating scalp, and her hunched shoulders and air of despondency added to her general attitude of dejection. If Jules could see me now, she thought in horror, but at the recollection of the Frenchman misery swamped her anew. She had planned to see Jules in London. Working in the capital, they would have had plenty of occasions to be together. He had told her he hoped to do some of his recording work in England, and she had looked forward excitedly to informing him of her new independence. How forlorn those hopes now seemed, enmeshed as she was in the chains of obligation. How unlikely it would be that Richard would even countenance her friendship with a man like Jules, a man who might threaten his unwilling possession.

      With a feeling of despair almost overpowering her, she peeled off her sticky clothes and went into the bathroom. Perhaps if she had a shower, she thought, washed her hair and changed into something more flattering, she would feel better. At least she would be able to face herself without actual disgust at her appearance, and once Richard and Alex had gone to change for dinner, she would walk in the garden. The freshness of the evening air sounded very appealing, and her mind would be clearer if it was cooler.

      She washed her hair first, and then showered the heat of the day from her body. Some of the redness subsided beneath the cooling spray, and by the time she emerged, she was feeling human again. Covering her limbs with a cotton caftan, she plugged in her hairdryer and perched on the end of the bed, threading her fingers through her hair to help it to dry. Already the shadows were lengthening on the tennis court, the tall cypresses that hid the stable yard casting their shade in elongated fingers. It was going to be another pleasant evening, and Olivia couldn’t help remembering other evenings when Richard had taken her down to the river, and they had sailed the small dinghy he used to own. Nowadays he kept a yacht, permanently moored on the Thames, and he seldom had time for sailing.

      Pushing the disruptive thoughts of her stepbrother aside, she thought instead of Jules, and wondered when he would get in touch with her. He had her address, and her telephone number, she recalled with some dismay, imagining Richard’s reactions if some strange man rang and asked to speak to her. Still, she defended herself, determining not to sink back into melancholy, Richard was not her keeper, and if she chose to have friends of her own, he couldn’t stop her.

      ‘Olivia!’

      Richard’s voice accompanying a sharp rap at her door almost scared her half to death, indulging as she had been in recollections of Jules’s farewell at the airport. It was almost as if her subconscious dread of her stepbrother’s censure had summoned him out of the air, and she was unprepared when the door opened to admit him. Not for him the polite delay while he waited for her response, she thought angrily. She could have been stark naked, and he would still have walked in, probably showing no more surprise than he was showing now.

      Although her impulse was to get up from the bed, she forced herself to remain where she was, confronting him defensively, summoning all her reserves of composure. She said nothing, allowing him to make the first overtures, and he closed the door behind him and leaned back against it.

      ‘Hi,’ he said at last, and it was so unexpected, she could only stare at him. ‘Bella said you didn’t want any tea. You’re not sick, are you?’

      Olivia’s lips trembled, and she pressed them together to hide the small betrayal. ‘I wasn’t hungry,’ she got out shortly, and he straightened away from the door, his eyes surveying her thoughtfully.

      ‘You’ve been crying,’ he stated, approaching her with some deliberation. He came round the bed towards her corner, and although her eyes measured the distance to the safety of the bathroom, she knew she would never make it. Besides, as Bella had said, she knew the uncertainty of his temper, and she wouldn’t put it past him to smash the lock if she tried to turn it against him.

      He halted in front of her, hands pushed into the hip pockets of his pants, feet slightly apart on the curly tumble-twist of her carpet. He was so sure of himself, she thought resentfully, darting a look up at him, and then continued drying her hair as if she was supremely indifferent to his presence.

      Richard watched her for a few more minutes, minutes when Olivia ran the whole gamut of her emotions, then he bent and disconnected her dryer, and the silence that followed was almost deafening.

      ‘I said—you’ve been crying,’ he repeated, stretching out a hand and stroking her cheekbone with a lazy finger. ‘I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?’

      Olivia almost gasped, but she flinched away from his touch with a revulsion that was evident in every line of her slim body. He was apologising! After the terrible afternoon she had spent, closeted in the heat of her bedroom, he thought he could just come and apologise and that would be the end of it. And what was he apologising for? Not what he had said, that much she was sure, and anything else was pure diplomacy.

      ‘I’m trying to dry my hair,’ she managed to say now, fidgeting with the temperature control. ‘If—if that’s all you have to say, will you plug it in again before you leave. I’d like to get my hair dry before dinner.’

      It was tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet, she knew, but for some reason Richard chose not to pick it up. Instead, he bent and reconnected the dryer, plucking it out of her hand before she could stop him, and continuing the drying himself.

      She wanted to protest, to snatch the appliance out of his hand, and order him out of her room. But his movements were sure and rhythmical, his fingers massaging her scalp, releasing all the tension in her neck. She found herself yielding to his touch, moving with him, and when he came behind her to lift the length of hair from her nape, she allowed herself to rest against his thighs, as if they were there for just that purpose.

      ‘Is that good?’ he asked, bending his head so she could hear him, and she nodded drowsily. She was bemused by the sensations he was arousing, so much so that when he switched off the dryer again she was