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Джордан Пенни
Silver
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CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T easy, but then nothing in her life had been, apart from her early childhood relationship with her father. But this was different from any other obstacle Silver had ever had to overcome, and her nights became haunted by the savage bite of Jake’s voice, the acid-cool neutrality of his curt instructions, the calm indifference with which he blocked her every attempt to outmanoeuvre him, when, driven beyond caution, she pushed recklessly at his astounding self-control, waiting for the storm to break and his temper to overwhelm his mastery of his emotions.
It never did; she was always the one forced to back down from the confrontation. She was the one forced to withdraw and regroup… And on and on it went, instructions, criticism, cool, curt, matter-of-fact reminders of what she was trying to achieve, while all the time she felt she would go insane and break down completely beneath the unrelenting pressure.
Another woman would have done; but then another woman would never have taken the dangerous course she had chosen in the first place. She was as hard on herself as he was, grimly reminding herself that this was her own choice—a necessary means to a specific end—and that if she could not control her dislike and resentment of the man for long enough for him to teach her what she needed to know, then she had little or no chance of fulfilling her ultimate promise to herself. And all the time she clung on to the vision that drove her: the vision of Charles, awestruck, spellbound, held in total thrall to her beauty, trapped by his desire for her as she had been by hers for him. Nothing else would do… nothing less would satisfy what she felt inside… And it was for that vision that she endured when others would have given up.
There were times when Silver thought almost fancifully that it was only that granite-hard, stubborn mingling of English and Irish blood within her that made her go on where others, more sensible perhaps than she, would have backed down. She was beginning to recognise within herself a certain grim relentlessness that she had thought belonged exclusively to her father. It was like coming abruptly face to face with a stranger within herself—shockingly and heart-stoppingly terrifying, until she forced herself to accept that it was simply one facet of her own personality.
She had been with Jake almost a month and, although she herself didn’t realise it yet, she had already learned much.
He knew it, though, and he observed with a certain detached clinicality that already her voice had developed a subtle sensuality, that she moved differently, more voluptuously, with more awareness; and he knew these things without seeing them; felt them, heard them; sensed them growing within her while she herself remained oblivious to what was happening to her, too caught up in what had become a fierce personal battle to prove to him that she would succeed to notice the slow, progressive steps she was already taking along the road she had chosen for herself.
He told her as much one cold afternoon when a blizzard outside had turned the world grey-white, and Silver filled the sitting-room with the tension of her impatience… with her longing to break free of the constrictions he placed upon her, of her role as supplicator and pupil, which she constantly wanted to challenge, and overset.
‘You’re too impatient,’ he told her emotionlessly after she had flung herself away from him and gone to stand in front of the window. ‘The Chinese have a saying: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step”…’
Silver narrowed her eyes and turned round, glowering at him, and then she caught herself up. It still had the power to astonish her that she should be so intensely aware of him and antagonised by him in so many minute ways, and yet that she should almost totally forget so often that he was blind.
It was as though he possessed some power that enabled him to project himself past his blindness and render it completely unimportant.
‘Come back here, Silver, and we’ll go through it again. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind…’
Changed her mind… She swung back to the window. How many times had she longed to do so, but stubbornly refused to allow herself to give in? Sometimes she thought his clinical detachment was meant to be deliberately abrasive… that he wanted her to give in and back down… that he was secretly and deliberately torturing her by forcing her to go over and over every tiny caress, every inflection of the words he made her say, the things he made her do.
She had learned a lot from him since that first night, had been slowly and inexorably inculcated with the information and expertise she had wanted.
Now she knew exactly how to touch a man to arouse him in desire—and not just to touch him, but to look at him, smile at him, speak to him. And now, if she managed to get through today’s lesson without telling him to go to hell, she would know how to argue with him and still challenge him to desire.
The lessons… the supply of information seemed inexhaustible, like a ceaseless stream pouring relentlessly into her, so that there were times when she wanted to scream at him, ‘Stop… enough!’ Times when she felt as though her spirit would break in two beneath the weight of his accumulated cynicism and knowledge… when she wasn’t sure which of them despised the other the more… when for some odd, uncomfortable reason, instead of screaming defiance at him, she wanted to break down and cry, without having an atom of understanding of why she should feel that way.
And harder to bear than everything he had taught her about his own sexuality had been the knowledge he had forced on her about her own… not as a woman, but as an individual… She had learned for instance that the mere pressure of his fingers against the inner flesh of her arm could make her jerk back from him in fierce tension… that the sensation of his mouth against her throat, his hand against her breast could evoke responses that had to be frozen at birth; although he said nothing, did nothing to show that he was aware of what was happening to her, instincts as ancient as the race she herself had sprung from warned her that he had known… Had known and yet hadn’t used that knowledge against her… and that confused her.
She closed her eyes, blotting out the blinding whiteness of the blizzard and thinking instead of Ireland… of the ancient castle of stone, facing out across the Atlantic, guardian of the land beyond which had been the stronghold of a race of Irish princes until one of her ancestors had seduced and married one of the noble daughters. If she closed her eyes, she could see the castle now, rising up out of the mist that blew in off the sea… Rugged, dauntless, austere, swept by gales and storms in winter and in no way to be compared with Rothwell, that jewel of Palladian splendour and richness set in its lush green English farmlands. And yet… and yet it was to Kilrayne that she ached to return now… It was Kilrayne that had been her refuge, Kilrayne that offered her surcease and comfort.
Kilrayne… If she kept her eyes closed she could almost imagine she was there, standing in front of the huge fireplace in the great hall, warming herself on the heat of the massive logs needed to fill the enormous grate. The room would smell of oak-smoke and soot, the draughts lifting the faded banners and tapestries from the walls, and outside the Atlantic gale would hurl the rain against the narrow, leaded window-slits.
Kilrayne, a dark grey fortress, built for defence and not pleasure; Kilrayne, whose stone walls had more than once run red with the blood of its enemies. Charles hated it… He shivered in the draughts, complained about the smoking fires, loathed the narrow passages and huge stone-walled rooms.
Silver, on the other hand, loved it… loved the sharp contrast between the dull grey stone and the richness of its tapestries and embroidered bed-hangings… its stone-flagged floors and glowing Oriental carpets, the massive heaviness of its furniture and the pewter dullness of its silver; commissioned in France and smuggled back from that country, so the story went, by an Irish Jacobite younger son of the family banished to Ireland to keep him out of the way of Hanover George’s revenge.
She and her father had spent every spring there. He had always said that there was nowhere quite like Ireland in the spring, when the sky was washed clean and soft by the wind from the Atlantic and the hedgerows and fields of the south turned a green that could not be rivalled anywhere in the world.
He would arrive there at the same time as the season’s first crop of foals. He used to take her with him when he visited the stables, carefully instructing her in the good points to look for, pointing out to her which foals they would keep and which they would sell, and why.
Later in the year he would go to Argentina, where he bought his polo ponies, and here again he would instruct her, tutoring her so that she learned without ever knowing that she did so.
It was only in the winter, when he always returned to Rothwell so that he could hunt with the Belvoir, that she refused to accompany him. Much as she enjoyed the spectacle and pageant of the hunt, she had never been able to endure being in at the kill, and her father rode to hounds at the very forefront of the chase.
Sometimes Charles had accompanied him, both of them looking in their different ways intensely male and virile… very much the epitome of the traditional image of upper-class manhood.
Her father had loved to hunt—had been a first-class rider… Other men sustained falls, broken limbs, the jocular teasing of their peers, but her father had never been unseated once. He had always shrugged his skill aside, claiming modestly that it was his mounts who deserved the credit and not him.
And yet he had died on the hunting field, thrown by a young and untried mount, who had panicked and bolted, dragging his unconscious rider so that by the time they were able to stop him her father was dead.
An accident… or was it? Her father’s doctor had told her gently that there was a possibility that her father might have committed suicide. Suicide… It had come as a shock to her to discover that there were areas of her father’s life about which she knew nothing… shadows darkening it which might have led to his taking his own life…
An accident… suicide… or murder…? Her mouth twisted bitterly. She knew which it was. Charles had murdered her father; she was sure of it. And she knew why. Charles, upon whom she had looked as near perfect; believing that his outer, golden perfection mirrored an equally golden heart. How wrong she had been… how naïve… But she was naïve no longer, and she intended to make Charles pay—and not just for what he had done to her, for his cruelty, his cynical callousness towards her, for the threats he had used to show her how defenceless she was without her father to protect her—for who would believe the hysterical claims of a fat, plain young woman who it was known was speaking out of jealousy and spite, against the assured sophistication of a man like Charles? No, it was more for her father’s sake that she was determined to hunt him down, to stalk him, and finally to trap him, exposing him to himself and to the world for the person that he really was. Her father… God, how she missed him even now. He was the only person who had ever really loved her, who had ever really cared…
Her throat closed on a surge of deep emotion, and then, like a knife ripping into a tender, unhealed wound, she heard Jake saying coldly, ‘It’s your time we’re wasting, Silver, not mine. I promised you a month… after that…’
‘You’ll what…?’ she demanded savagely. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t see the suspicious glitter of the tears she was fighting to suppress, but even so she lashed out at him verbally, hating him for being present at her moment of betrayal. ‘Double the price? I haven’t paid you yet, Jake,’ she reminded him, driven by her own demons to taunt softly, ‘What would you do if I walked out of here and refused to pay you a penny?’
That she was punishing him for Charles’s faults and for her own weakness she knew quite well, but the fierce pace he was setting her, the gruelling insistence on perfection, which was like nothing she had ever undergone before, was undermining her self-control, making her want to draw retaliatory blood, making her hate herself for the way he pierced her defences and pushed her from her sanctuary of icy remoteness into the painful world of feelings and emotions. She had turned her back on that world when she had turned her back on herself, totally destroying the woman she had once been. And she hated him for making her bitterly conscious of the fact that that woman and some of her vulnerabilities still remained; that she had not, as she had thought, completely obliterated and buried her.
Jake was silent for so long that she actually began to think with relief that he hadn’t heard her, and then he said quietly, and very pleasantly, ‘How you do like to flirt with fire. Why not try it and see?’ And without a single threat being made Silver was overwhelmed by the pressure of a menace so strong that she physically shivered beneath it, awestruck that a voice and face that could look so benign and unemotional should at the same time be able to convey such an intensity of purpose. How different he was from Charles… as dark-visaged and formidably boned as a Roman god of war, where Charles was all golden promise, all physical perfection, with the face and body of a Greek statue. Under a similar threat, though, as she now had good cause to know, Charles would have reacted with violence and malevolence, so intense and strong that the shock of it would have terrorised his victim. Jake, while equally formidable, used so little anger, and no physical force, and yet the effect he was having on her right now was far more powerful, so much more effective than anything Charles had ever said or done.
Idly she wondered who would be the victor if the two men were ever to confront one another as enemies. Pound for pound, inch for inch they were probably evenly matched, both tall, well-muscled men, although Jake had a way of moving that was somehow far more intimidating than Charles’s aggressively male stride.
Physically, there was surely no comparison. Charles had the looks of a screen idol, and the charisma… Jake, on the other hand, had the kind of face that women would find challenging and a little austere.
Charles had the natural hauteur and arrogance that came from having a privileged, wealthy background; he possessed charm, sophistication—sex appeal. He also possessed, as she had good cause to know, a deep vein of cruelty, a love of inflicting emotional and physical pain… a desire to dominate and destroy. Charles, all golden beauty on the outside, was inwardly corrupt… even evil… Silver gave a tiny shudder, remembering the extent of that evil, wondering how many lives it had touched and damaged.
Jake, on the other hand, was without such cruelty. He was hard, yes, unyielding, savagely determined, completely impervious to the kind of vanities which she knew were going to be Charles’s downfall.
In any kind of contest between them, Charles should have been the victor, and yet there was something about Jake that made her acknowledge that when he thought he was in the right he would hang on as grimly as the proverbial bulldog. She respected Jake, something she realised with a sudden start of shock she had never felt for Charles, despite her youthful idolatry of him.
A tiny frisson of unwanted sensation touched her, an awareness… sharply poignant, shockingly intense—something dangerous and not to be thought of.
She reacted to it as strongly as if Jake had physically laid hands on her and overpowered her, saying violently, ‘You can’t threaten me, Jake. I could walk out of here right this moment and there’s not a thing you could do about it.’
She looked at him, and something cynical and world-weary in his expression tightened the coil of panic gripping her.
‘You can’t even see me, never mind stop me—–’
She broke off, shaking with a mixture of panic-based rage and a deep sense of shame. That she, who had born so many taunts and cruel words because of her own physical handicap, should use such a weapon against someone else sickened her. She took one look at Jake’s shuttered, hard face, and the words of apology stuck in her throat.
‘If you want to walk out of here, Silver, I’m not going to stop you,’ Jake told her quietly.
There was no recognition of her insult, her cruelty… her immaturity… Nothing other than the weary patience of an adult for a recalcitrant, awkward child. His reaction, so mild and restrained, bit into her soul like a tempered steel whip, lacerating her pride until it was raw with pain.
‘You aren’t the only one wishing this were over, you know,’ he told her calmly. ‘It would be the easiest thing in the world right now for me to let you walk away from here—as you just said, I can’t stop you.’
Her face burned with guilt and self-contempt. His very acceptance where she had expected anger, his calmness where she had expected ferocity, made her feel far worse than if he had lost his temper with her.
The trouble was… the trouble was, she ached for him to make some betrayal of vulnerability—of humanity. At the moment she felt like a stupid child confronted by a particularly intelligent and mature adult.
She wanted to bring him down to her own level, she admitted wearily. She wanted to weaken him for the sake of her own conceit.
She closed her eyes, feeling her stomach muscles knot. When had it happened, this dangerous desire to shift the entire axis of their relationship… this need to make him respond to her on a personal level, even if that response came only from anger?
As she opened her eyes, she tensed, realising that he had moved and was now standing within inches of her.
‘And it’s not true that just because I can’t see you, I can’t find you,’ he told her softly. His hand touched her face and he said quietly, ‘It isn’t very pleasant when we make discoveries about ourselves that we don’t like, is it?’
And Silver knew, immediately and shockingly, that he was as fully aware of her most private thoughts as if they had been his own.
She tried to step back from him, but he wouldn’t let her.
‘Acknowledging that we aren’t perfect and then learning to make our vices work as well for us as our virtues is an important step on the road to maturity.’
And then, before she could speak, he added almost ruefully, ‘I do know what it’s like, you know. I have been there myself… which is why I cautioned you against this goal you’ve set for yourself. All right, so you loved the guy and you lost him… He hurt you, and now you want to hurt him back…’
‘There’s more to it than that,’ Silver told him stiffly. ‘A lot more…’
His hand left her face and she discovered that she was free to move away, but for some reason she no longer felt the need to.
It was an odd sensation to be talking with him like this… to be communicating with him as one human being to another.
‘Such as?’
Later, questioning the wisdom of having confided in him, she had been forced to admit that he had applied a startlingly skilful degree of emotional pressure on her, and in such a way that she had had no idea how she was being manipulated until it was too late and she had told him far more about herself than she had ever intended he should know.
‘He—my cousin—wanted to marry me—he didn’t love me—he told me that, and laughed at me for thinking he might. How could he love me? I was plain, fat, ugly.’
‘You mean you thought he wanted to marry you?’
Silver shook her head, angry that he wouldn’t believe her.
‘No, I know it. He told me… boasted about it… said he would make me do it. That I had no choice. That our engagement—he said that he had to have Roth—–’ She broke off, biting her lip. No one, except Annie, knew who she really was… what she had originally been. And Annie might have told Jake everything else, but she wouldn’t tell him that—she had promised.
‘You were engaged to him?’
She could see Jake frowning, and felt a sudden shaft of pleasure that she had at last managed to surprise him after all.
‘Yes, unofficially. But not because he loved me. He made that plain enough. And to think I’d been stupid enough to believe that he actually could.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘God, I was such a fool!’
‘And then he found someone else and dumped you…’
Silver gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, no… There was someone else, but he still intended to marry me. He gave me a choice: marriage or destruction; there was nothing I could do about it, nothing at all… at least not as Ger—–’
Again she froze, realising she had once more nearly said too much, but Jake didn’t appear to be listening. He was frowning, and then he raised his hand and touched her face, lightly tracing its shape with his fingers.
‘So this was not merely done out of vanity, but out of necessity, as well. Out of self-protection and self-defence.’
His astuteness shocked her. Not even Annie had guessed at that second part of her need to change her appearance so totally that no one would ever recognise what she had once been… who she had once been.
‘Partly,’ she acknowledged, and then honesty forced her to admit, ‘Of course I could have chosen to have a plainer face… I can’t pretend that vanity didn’t come into it. You see, Charles has a weakness for beautiful women… that and his greed are perhaps the only weaknesses he does have.’
She pulled away from him and said tiredly, ‘There’s no point in trying to dissuade me, Jake. This is something I have to do.’
She felt him weighing her up, considering, thinking, and then he said, almost reluctantly, ‘It won’t be easy. And I do know what I’m talking about. I have a score to settle of my own…’
‘Which is why you need my money.’
‘Which is why I need your money,’ he agreed.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what had happened, but already she could feel him withdrawing from her, his face becoming stern and remote.
‘Speaking of which, unless I want you to accuse me of wasting your time, I think perhaps we ought to get back to work.’
‘Work!’ The man was practically inhuman. He had cleverly trapped her into confiding in him, but when it came to his own past… How many other men in this position could continue to treat her as he did, as though he was completely unaffected by her, by the intimacy of what they were doing, as though he found her flesh as coldly uninviting as if it belonged, not to another human being, but to a robot.
He kept himself completely divorced from her emotionally, and mentally, and yet he seemed to possess a diabolical awareness of her every thought and mood, as though he had some deep inner awareness of her most complicated emotional response that not even she herself was privy to. And she hated that… Hated it… resented it… defied it, and constantly tried to transfer those feelings to him, to blame him for those aspects of her own inner vulnerabilities that she couldn’t bear to face.
‘Thank God there’s only another week to go,’ she hissed at him bitterly. What would it take to break his self-control, to reduce him to need and despair? She looked at him assessingly and tried to judge him dispassionately… to single out one small chink of vulnerability in the wall of implacable indifference which he had thrown up around himself.
She studied him directly, studying each feature of his face in turn, trying to ignore the wild thumping of her heart when her scrutiny was faultlessly returned, so faultlessly and so steadfastly that it was almost as though he could see her. Her heart jolted with unease and an almost superstitious fear that he was after all deceiving her, that he and Annie had lied to her and that he could in fact see, and she recognised what she had known all along: that in his blindness she had hidden herself from him, so that everything she had to do and say, every intimacy she had to perform was mercifully made less intimate, less dangerous by the fact that once she had gone from this place she could, if she so wished, come face to face with him across a dinner table and not be betrayed by his knowledge of her.
Not that she ever expected to encounter him across any of the dinner tables she was likely to sit down at.
Her disappearance, her faked death might mean that temporarily the doors of her old acquaintances and peers were closed to her, but they would open once more, and very soon. The pedigree she had concocted for herself was impeccable… the background, the wealth, the tiny details of the persona she was creating meticulously researched… so meticulously that no one would be able to find fault with them.
She would have an immediate entree into Charles’s world; she would be able to fascinate and then ensnare him, and ultimately she would be able to destroy him.
‘Stop daydreaming,’ Jake told her crisply. ‘You can fantasise all you like about the future in your own time… Unless, of course,’ he added silkily, ‘you believe I’ve taught you as much as you need to know…’
He was doing it again, looking straight at her with those cool, too knowing eyes, making her squirm both mentally and physically, making her want to hide herself from him. Making her flush like a child as she remembered this morning’s brutally pointed object lesson in male sexuality.
It was over two weeks now since he had first questioned her like an examiner on the facts she had gleaned from the manuals he had insisted she read; questions that had turned her face fiery red, and made her clench her teeth and bite the inside of her mouth to prevent herself from stammering the answers; questions so intimate, and yet delivered in so flat, matter-of-fact a voice, that somehow or other the awful intimacy of what was happening was heightened rather than lessened.
What had followed was still a nightmare to her: a relentless period of hours which had seemed to become days, of questions and answers… questions designed to underline her ignorance and to defeat her determination not to give in to the mastery she sensed he intended to have over her, over their situation. Questions which had laid bare the paucity of her knowledge, of her awareness, of her inner essence of herself as a woman.
And not until he was satisfied that she knew by heart every last nuance of male sexuality and male anatomy had he allowed her to touch him.
Allowed her! She shuddered at the very word chosen by her mind. Were it not for the fact that she was here by her own will, he would have had to drag her screaming and kicking to within a foot of his body, never mind make her touch it! It made no difference telling herself that it was he who should feel embarrassed, he who should feel diminished by their bargain. He did not and she did, and even now it seemed he wasn’t satisfied.
Her performance, while technically fair, lacked spontaneity and enthusiasm, he had told her.
Now, with her nerves stretched to breaking-point, her whole sense of purpose undermined to such an extent that she was no longer sure if she had the stamina to endure any more, she knew suddenly and bitterly that she couldn’t go on.
She moved savagely, hating herself, hating him, but most of all hating Charles for making all of this necessary.
Outside the window the snow whirled and boiled, the storm as tempestuous as her emotions. As she stared into the snow she had a momentary vision of her father the last time they had skied together, and the ache of pain inside her intensified. She mustn’t let him down… she must make Charles pay.
‘Face it,’ said Jake grimly behind her. ‘You’re never going to make it. You just don’t have what it takes.’
The moment the jibe was spoken he regretted it, but she had been driving him to the edge of his self-control for days, whether she knew it or not, and he suspected that she did. He felt her pain as though it were a physical link between them, felt the swift stirring of air that told him what she was feeling.
Part of him wanted to take hold of her and either physically shake her or punish her with the kind of kiss that he knew full well, once given, would change their relationship for ever. And the worst of it all was that, even knowing the folly of such an action, he was still unbearably tempted to do it—to drown out all the loneliness, the frustration… the sheer heaviness of the burdens he carried by opening up that sealed well of emotion she kept so well guarded.
He knew that within them both was the capacity to destroy the privacy each of them guarded so fiercely. Fortunately for him, Silver didn’t know it… not yet. She was too obsessed with keeping control of herself to worry about what he was feeling.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he heard her say unevenly. ‘I’m going up to my room.’
‘No!’
Even as he said it he knew he ought to let her go, for both their sakes. He was feeling too raw, too vulnerable to detach himself as he knew he must, and yet still he reached for her, still he touched her face and felt the warm dampness of tears he had known would be there, even though she hadn’t made a single betraying sound.
When he kissed her he told himself he was doing it for Beth… that everything was for Beth… for his guilt, for her pain, for her death, and ultimately for the destruction of whoever it was in London who had ordered the taking of her life.
Drug dealing was an ugly business, he had known that from the start… had known the dangers and ignored them. That arrogance on his part had cost Beth her life.
A life for a life… but so far three men had been made to pay. Not directly by Jake; it was the information he had given the FBI which had led to the gaoling of two members of the quartet. And José Ortuga was dead, killed in a bomb blast by a rival Colombian drug baron just before Jake could trap him. That explosion had also cost him his sight. Now there was one final member of the quartet to track down and destroy: the one in charge of the London arm of the operation… the one who had ordered Beth’s death… the one who had realised exactly who he was and who he was working for… the one who had so far eluded the skills of the experts he had paid to track him down.
Without his sight there was only so much he could do himself… but he would use Silver’s money to pay for men to find the final member of that unholy quartet.
Beneath the hard assault of his mouth he felt Silver’s soften, felt the frisson of shock run through her, felt her bewilderment and distress as though they were his own, and still he used them ruthlessly to expiate his own anger, his own pain. Used her in a way which he knew damned well was neither detached nor remote, refusing to release her mouth until she was quiescent with shock beneath his.
The moment he relaxed his hold she wrenched away from him, as he had known she would, and he knew quite well that if he could see her he would find her mouth swollen and her eyes full of tears.
The anger left him as quickly as it had come.
He ought to apologise, but if he did that he would be inviting an intimacy into their relationship which was dangerous to them both.
Instead he said coolly, ‘Now maybe we can make some progress. Now that you know at first hand what desire feels like.’
Colour scorched Silver’s skin. What she had just endured was surely the most humiliating episode in her whole life… worse in some ways than finding Charles making love to someone else. That she had actually for one brief second of time felt desire… that Jake had known it… She shuddered.
It was time for a break, Jake acknowledged as she fled. Both of them needed it.
It caused him a certain amount of wry self-mockery to acknowledge that increasingly there were times when he physically desired her to the point where he had difficulty with his self-control. He, who hadn’t once, in the years since Beth had died, truly, instinctively desired a woman with that gut-deep, mindless male ache that owed nothing to intelligence, compassion or indeed any other emotion other than the most basic one of intense physical hunger. And very infrequently before that.
His life had been far from celibate, but he was a man who prided himself on relating to the women who shared his life and his bed as fellow human beings, who had ranked sex well down on the list of what was essential in a man-to-woman relationship. And yet here he was, his body and his mind drawn tight with an aching need that he wanted to put down to the mere intimacy of their situation, but which he knew damn well he could not.
He linked his arms behind his head and tried to ease the tension from his neck. Only another few days. Already, even if she didn’t know it herself, she had learned almost all she needed to know. That jibe he had thrown at her had been without foundation, and he ought to tell her as much.
He was a trained observer who, now that the sense of sight was lost to him, made full use of those senses left to him to absorb and catalogue information about others; he wondered if she was as aware as he was of how much she suppressed her natural sexuality, even while claiming that she wanted to use it.
He knew enough about the human race and its behavioural patterns to know that it would be quite easy for him to destroy that suppression and make her respond to him personally, as she had done this afternoon.
He had told himself that he wasn’t going to do it because he didn’t want the complications which would inevitably ensue… because he didn’t want that kind of involvement, especially not with a woman so obviously hung up on another man… Charles, she had called him… And there had been pain as well as anger in her voice when she’d said he had never loved her.
He wondered who she really was. It wouldn’t be impossible for him to find out… Quickly he shut himself off from the temptation. He had other things to do with his life, things that were far more important. He had a murder to avenge. He frowned. How well he understood what motivated Silver… none better. He didn’t want to allow himself to feel sympathy for her. In so many ways she was everything he despised in her sex, but that was only on the surface. Beneath that surface was a woman every bit as vulnerable as Beth had been…
Beth… why was he linking the two of them together? He shifted uncomfortably, dropping his hands and then getting up.
Force of habit drove him over to the window. He knew it was there by some complicated alteration within his inner darkness, by the difference in the scent of the air… almost by instinct… even though, standing in front of it and looking outwards, he could see nothing of the storm raging outside. His mind was on other things.
Ultimately he was going to have to fulfil the final clause of their contract and free her from the unwanted burden of her physical virginity.
His mouth curled in a humourless smile. Originally when she had made that stipulation, although he hadn’t allowed her to see it, he had wondered cynically if, when the time came, he would be physically capable of entering her, whether he had the physical strength, the stamina, the mental will-power to overcome all the mental and emotional pitfalls of making love to a woman he neither liked nor desired. Now he was more concerned with making sure she didn’t goad him to the point where his physical possession of her was no longer something he could mentally distance himself from—no longer merely a set task to be accomplished with clinical detachment and as much physical finesse as he could manage.
It couldn’t be put off any longer. With every day they spent together now, the tension grew between them. Hers was infiltrated with fear, even though she fought hard not to show it.
He turned away from the source of light and stretched. His blindness was in its way his punishment for thinking himself invincible. He had been careless, and that carelessness had cost other men their freedom and himself his sight. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been the one in charge… he should have been. He had been guilty of an error of judgement and he would pay for that error all through his life. The doctors had been brutally frank with him. There was no hope of his ever regaining his sight.
He touched his face, his fingers instinctively finding the small ridges of scars that were all that was left of the patchwork of plastic surgery Annie had done to repair the horrendous damage the bomb had inflicted.
When the eye surgeon had first recommended plastic surgery, he had told him to go to hell. What did it matter to him what he looked like? The man had persisted, though, patiently pointing out that, while he didn’t have to look at himself, others did…
Unable to endure the thought of more surgery, he had come instinctively here to Annie and had eventually given in to her persuasion that he should have the operations. She had performed them herself. He had wondered, in one bleak moment of self-acknowledgement before the anaesthetic had claimed him, if God would punish him for Beth’s death by letting him die.
Or would that have been a punishment? Life held no savour for him now. No savour, perhaps, but it did hold a purpose… a purpose that only Silver’s money could help him to achieve. His mouth twisted again, a long-ago scrap of conversation floating to the surface of his mind—Beth saying awkwardly, ‘She wanted you to want her…’
They had been talking about her mother. They had been lying in bed together in the apartment in Paris he had rented for their honeymoon. She had been so insecure, so young, not quite nineteen to his twenty-eight… too young, an inner voice told him as he forced himself to confront the knowledge that had been with him for a long time, but which somehow or other Silver had brought to the surface of his consciousness, adding to his already heavy burden of guilt.
He had loved Beth, had cherished her, but in so many ways she had still been a child. Would there ultimately have come a time when her immaturity, her dependence, even her love might have become burdensome to him? When he might have longed for a woman capable of meeting him on his own ground; a woman such as…? He blocked off the thought.
Beth… why did he find it so difficult to conjure up a mental picture of her face… to remember what it had felt like to hold her in his arms, to love her? He could remember how she had made his heart ache with tenderness… how he had wanted to protect her… but he couldn’t remember what it had felt like to desire her the way he had desired Silver. They were so very different, and yet… and yet there were moments when he sensed such an intensity of vulnerability about Silver that it set off a corresponding echo deep within himself.
She had been injured, hurt, her life destroyed by the treachery of the man she loved, and now she was going to hit back at him. To destroy him in turn. Revenge, one of the most powerful human emotions there could be. And one of the most self-destructive; he should know. Yet, though he tried to warn her against taking up those burdens, he knew quite well that she would not listen to him. This need in him to warn her, to protect her almost, irked him; she was no real concern of his, but old habits died hard, and far too long he had carried the burden of being responsible for others, Beth and, before her, Justin…
Anyway, did he really have the right to tell Silver how to run her life, he who had never allowed anyone to dictate to him how he lived his life? Already in his thoughts he was betraying the fact that he was losing his emotional distance from her, that he was aware of her in ways that threatened both of them. It had to stop. Now, before things got completely out of control.
He moved restlessly around the room, acknowledging a deep inner truth he had been fighting for days.
It was time to bring things to an end…
One final lesson and they would both be free to go their own separate ways.
Silver sensed the purposefulness in him when she came down to prepare dinner. Supplies of food were delivered regularly twice a week from the town and they took it in turns to prepare the meals.
Tonight it was her turn.
Despite her father’s wealth and upbringing, she could cook, a strange, eclectic collection of dishes prepared with an expertise she had garnered from her father’s households throughout the world.
Tonight it was Irish stew, made in the traditional way, and served with soda bread.
As she lifted the casserole out of the oven and prepared to serve it, she commented briskly to Jake, ‘It’s Irish stew; that’s—–’
‘You don’t need to tell me what it is. I know.’
The vehemence in his voice startled her. She stopped what she was doing and looked at him, stunned to see a muscle twitch fiercely in his jaw. His mouth was drawn into a tight line of pain, and for the first time she saw the brilliant eyes unfocused as they stared not at her but past her, as though he were looking at something no one else could see.
He had been sitting down, since she had told him she was about to serve dinner, but now he got up abruptly, awkwardly almost, half stumbling against the table so that she reached out automatically to catch him and then withdrew her hand as she heard him swear.
He was halfway towards the door when she realised that he wasn’t going to have dinner with her. Without thinking what she was doing, she asked protestingly where he was going.
‘Somewhere I can’t smell that,’ he told her savagely, gesturing towards the steaming casserole, and then he added softly, ‘The last time I had Irish stew, my wife made it for me. It was her favourite dish and our last meal together before I went away on business. She was dead before I returned… murdered in cold blood.’
Silver let him go in silence, too shocked to say anything. It was the first time he had ever made any kind of reference to his own personal life, and the horror of the small picture he had drawn for her remained with her long after he had gone. She found that she couldn’t eat the stew herself and, picking up the casserole, she took it outside and threw it away.
When she came back in her stomach was still heaving, but there was nothing she could do. There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask… a thousand things she wanted to know…
It was unnerving and unwanted, this glimpse into the raw pain of someone else’s life; this knowledge that he was after all human and vulnerable.
She had wanted that vulnerability in him, hungering for it as a weapon she could use against him, but now she realised she didn’t want it after all… She was like a child suddenly discovering that a parent was frightened of the dark, and cravenly wishing she did not have to know about that fear.
She made herself go back into the kitchen, and turned on the extractor fan. She opened the fridge, and took out some fresh chicken breasts.
Half an hour later she went up to his room, knocked briefly on the door and without opening it said quietly, ‘Dinner’s ready. It’s Chicken Maryland,’ and without waiting for a response, for all the world as though the entire incident with the stew had never happened, she went back downstairs and calmly started serving the chicken.
He arrived just as she was filling her own wine glass, sitting down at the table and saying quietly, ‘I’ve decided that you’ve learned as much from me as you’re going to learn. That being the case, there’s just one small formality left…’
Silver’s hand shook. She spilt a drop of wine on the table and watched it with fixed attention, unable to bring herself to face him. Was he doing this as a reward because she had thrown away the stew, or as a punishment because she had made it in the first place?
Without appearing to notice her tension, he added coolly, ‘I made up my mind this afternoon. My decision has nothing to do with any personal motivation.’
That wasn’t strictly true, but he had realised from her tension exactly what she was thinking and his own pride would not allow him to let her go on thinking it.
That had been an idiotic thing to do. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have eaten the damn stew… But the smell of it had reminded him too sharply of Beth, of their lives together, of her death and his own feelings afterwards.
Revenge; he knew it all, every last nuance of what it felt like.
Desperate to conceal her tension from him, Silver said the first thing that came into her head.
‘Your wife… You said she was murdered…’ She shivered suddenly, thinking of her father, of Charles, who would surely destroy her as ruthlessly and as cold-bloodedly as he had threatened if he should ever penetrate her disguise. But that was impossible. To all intents and purposes she was dead, and had been reborn in a different image.
‘What is it you want to know?’ Jake asked her bitterly. ‘How Beth was killed, or why?’
Inwardly he was shocked at his own response to her question.
Silently Silver watched him, sensing his withdrawal, his anger. She had known quite well that mentioning his wife would anger him, but she had been desperate to divert his attention from her own tension. She half expected him to get up and walk out as he had done earlier, but to her astonishment he said grimly, ‘Well, why not? It might even serve as an object lesson to you, but somehow I doubt it. I was working as a government agent, tracking down a drug-trafficking syndicate. I was close enough to exposing the ringleaders to receive threats against my life when my cover was blown. I should have stopped then, should have insisted on sending Beth away somewhere safe, but she didn’t want to leave me and, God help me, I didn’t want her to go.
‘In my arrogance I thought they’d target any violence against me. I got a lead that some of the stuff was being shipped in from South America… a deliberate ruse to get me out of the way, but I was stupid enough and vain enough to fall for it.
‘While I was out of the country Beth was killed by a hit-and-run driver. An accident—that was how it looked, only it was no accident. Beth had been deliberately and cold-bloodedly murdered. You want to know how I can be so sure? Easy… her murderers took the trouble to let me know what they had done.
‘I only found out later that there’d been additional threats to the ones I’d received, threats that Beth hadn’t told me about… you see, she knew how important my work was to me…’
He wasn’t looking at her, and Silver had the feeling that he had almost forgotten she was there. It was as though the words were drawn from him like splinters of steel from a wound, and that with every word the pain increased, so that when he said under his breath, ‘But, dear God, it was never more important to me than her life,’ she felt a dull, paralysing ache close her own throat.
Sympathy… compassion… for Jake Fitton? Why? He had had none to spare for her.
‘Since Beth’s death I’ve spent my time tracking down the four people responsible for planning her murder…’
He had recovered with awesome speed and was once again apparently in full control of himself and his emotions.
‘Two of them are in American gaols under sentence of death; one of them died in the same bomb blast that cost me my sight… So far I’ve been robbed of the pleasure of making those responsible for Beth’s death pay personally and with compound interest for her suffering.
‘There’s only one member of the quartet left. No doubt he’s forgotten that Beth ever existed. Once I find him I intend to make him remember.’
The icy coldness of his voice sent shivers running down Silver’s spine.
‘And you dare to caution me against revenge?’ she demanded bitterly.
He smiled then, a humourless, chilling smile. ‘Revenge demands a high price: total dedication, total commitment.’
‘And you think I can’t meet those demands?’
He felt drained to the point of exhaustion. He never discussed Beth with anyone, and it stunned him that he should have chosen this woman out of everyone he knew to unburden himself to… And it had been an unburdening, even if she herself was unaware of that fact. It had been an admission to himself and to her of his guilt, his pain, his need to pay whatever price was demanded of him so that Beth’s death might be avenged.
And yet there was still one small, sane part of him that urged him to turn away from the past and to face forward into the future.
Was that why he was doing this? Was that why he was trying to make Silver recognise…? But why? She meant nothing to him…
Nothing other than the fact that she was a fellow human being and vulnerable. Far more vulnerable than she herself recognised.
Tiredly he told her, ‘Whatever you might say to the contrary, I remain unconvinced that you do actually hate this man. Has it occurred to you yet that you could all too easily fall into your own trap?’
Yes, it had occurred to her. Charles was a powerfully charismatic personality. Far more sophisticated women than she was had fallen under his spell. But she knew things about him that they did not… she had a far stronger motive for hating him than Jake Fitton knew.
It gave her an odd sense of awareness about him to recognise that both of them were linked together by their desire to avenge the death of someone they had loved; and more than that. Charles was heavily involved in the London drugs scene as a pusher. Something she hadn’t told Jake for reasons of her own.
Another thought struck her.
‘Is that why you’re doing this?’ she asked him curtly. ‘Because you need the money to track down the fourth man?’
‘Yes,’ he told her, equally briefly. ‘I know he’s based in London…’
Silver found she was holding her breath. Surely the fourth man couldn’t be Charles? And then she released it as Jake added, ‘He also does a lot of travelling, legitimately of course, using it as a means of contacting his suppliers.’
‘But if he’s smuggling drugs into the country—–’ Silver began.
Jake stopped her with a cold smile. ‘This isn’t someone who smuggles the stuff. He’s way, way above that part of the organisation. This is someone who plans and recruits… who deals direct with the drug barons and who is trusted by them. This is someone who runs a countrywide network of pushers… if you like, the drug barons’ ambassador to England.’
So it couldn’t be Charles. He had rarely left England. She was relieved, and recognised that part of the reason she had said nothing to Jake about Charles’s involvement with drugs was because she had been afraid that he might somehow snatch her prey away from her.
Out of some protective instinct Jake had thought he had long ago exhausted, he heard himself saying as he put down his knife and fork, ‘It’s not too late, you know. You can always change your mind. Revenge isn’t sweet… it’s acid, corrosive, bitter, and finally destructive. It will eat into your soul until there’s nothing left of you…’
Silver smiled at him, an animal baring of her teeth, her eyes glittering with resolve. Everything he had said to her had only strengthened her determination.
‘Who wants sweetness?’ she said evenly. ‘Unless, of course, you’re trying to tell me that eating Irish stew isn’t the only thing you’re incapable of doing.’
He picked up his knife and fork and ate some of his chicken slowly and deliberately, while she watched him with fascinated horror, wondering, as she always did, how he managed to cope so well with his blindness. Apart from a momentary hesitation as he searched for the chicken, no one would ever have guessed that he couldn’t see what was on his plate, and then, when he had finished chewing… when he must have known that her nerves were stretched to breaking-point by her own mindless, reckless idiocy, he said evenly, ‘In that case, you’d have an excellent opportunity to show us both how well you’ve learned everything I’ve attempted to teach you, wouldn’t you? The supreme test, so to speak.’
The moment of intimacy, of allowing her into his private thoughts and feelings was gone, Silver recognised, and she shivered in a return of her earlier tension.
It might have been better if Jake had not chosen to give her advance warning of what was to happen. And then she admitted, with the percipient intelligence that had been honed to such sharpness under her father’s tutelage, that whichever route he had chosen to take towards the final culmination to her studies with him she would have criticised it, and moreover that it was not for her to criticise or accuse, since it was by her own demand that it was to take place.
There could be no shielding herself from the reality of her own decisions by trying to hide behind Jake’s apparent authority.
Nevertheless… a tiny, uncomfortably sharp corner of her mind acknowledged that she would have felt happier had she been the one to dictate the timing of their final passage of arms.
Although she hadn’t said a word, Jake was alert to every single one of the emotional vibrations she was giving off. He wondered what it was that gave rise to that specific and, to him at least, very obvious mingling of fear, anger and resentment. The anger and resentment were directed at and caused by him, he knew, but the fear… Was she frightened of him? He had given her no cause to be. But the fear was there, no matter how much she tried to disguise it, and for some unack-nowledgeable reason that irked him. All through dinner he was sharply aware of it, like a piece of uncomfortable cloth rubbing against tender flesh, and that in itself was an annoyance. Why should he give a damn how she felt? Theirs was a financial bargain… an act of sale and an act of purchase… a necessary intimacy of the flesh without any involvement of either the emotions or the mind.
And yet, as he realised as clearly as though he could see her that she was toying with her food, he pushed his own plate to one side and said quietly, ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t want to change your mind, we might as well get it over and done with.’
His words, gruffly delivered, almost stiltedly so—which in itself was out of character because normally he allowed no emotion to cloud the ice-clear coldness of his voice—only increased her tension. He was almost on the brink of feeling sorry for her. Just as so many others had already felt sorry for her. Their pity… his pity were the last things she wanted. She got up jerkily and started to clear the table, saying unevenly, ‘Not yet, if you don’t mind… I haven’t had my coffee.’
He was standing up himself and she half expected him to clear the distance between them and manhandle her out of the kitchen, but instead he shrugged and said calmly, ‘Just as you like. I’ll load the dishwasher, then you can make the coffee.’
As he moved efficiently and quietly between the dining area and the kitchen, Silver had the feeling that his very presence threatened her in some illogical way; that as he carefully loaded the machine and then closed the door he was just as effectively sealing off all her routes of escape from a situation she herself had deliberately engineered; and yet what, after all, was there in the slightest degree dangerous about a blind man who had already made it abundantly clear that the last person he desired was her?
As she stood in a corner of the kitchen with the percolator bubbling behind her, surrounded by the sounds and scents of the most mundane sort, she wondered why she should know instinctively that for the rest of her life she would remember them as a backdrop to the most horrible and all-encompassing sense of terror she had ever experienced.
It began in her stomach like a cold chill that slowly turned to ice and then burned as the chill itself spread through her veins; it made her head feel physically tight with tension, made her throat muscles lock and a thrill of pure fear spiral through her body so that she shuddered visibly.
And yet some stubborn, implacable hereditary awareness within her made her acknowledge that even if she could simply will herself out of this place and into another… if she could simply make Jake disappear in a thin cloud of smoke as one of her ancestresses had been reputed to be able to do, she would not have done it.
This dread… this terror… this acknowledgement that she was voluntarily stepping into a situation in which she was not going to be in control, in which she was going to be acutely vulnerable to both physical and mental abuse and mockery, in which she was voluntarily giving over her most intimate flesh into the possession of another… these were part of the price she had to pay.
Despite her education and her intelligence, Silver had a deeply atavistic awareness of darker forces running beneath the surface of her life… of currents and tides… a knowledge that went far back beyond anything that could be learned from the written word and which owed itself to the Celtic blood that ran through her veins, carrying with it hereditary memories of the magical powers of her race. It was as though that inner knowledge was telling her that this was the sacrifice she must make, this the magic talisman that would buy her success, this a very necessary crossing of her own private river of fate, and that to turn back now would mean that the whole flow of her life would have to be redirected into new channels.
Behind her the coffee still bubbled, but she no longer heard it, and her eyes no longer saw the cheerfulness of the small kitchen.
‘Silver.’
The crispness of Jake’s curt demand brought her back to reality. She turned and focused on him, blinking a little.
For a moment she trembled between advancing or retreating, and then, like a sleep-walker, she heard herself saying emotionlessly, ‘Yes. I’m ready.’
As he listened to her, Jake smothered his own awareness of her fear. What was it that caused that fear? He could only think of the obvious reason, and the panic he had felt emanating from her before she’d brought it under control had been far stronger than that would have merited. Beth had been a virgin and he her first lover, but she had come to him with joy and trust… Beth… He pushed his own emotions aside and said coolly, ‘You haven’t had your coffee.’
Her coffee. Silver had forgotten all about it. She looked at it with a pinched face and haunted eyes, not wanting to think about what she was about to go through.
‘We’re going to be more comfortable upstairs, and since my room has the larger bed I suggest we use that. You go up. I’ll bring the coffee,’ Jake told her.
He had another reason for suggesting they use his room, and it had nothing to do with the size of its bed, but rather its position. His own room was familiar to him, each object as clearly known as though he could actually see it. Every sense he possessed, and some he had never known before that he had, were warning him of impending trauma. His training, his knowledge of himself, everything he had ever learned about the human race warned him that should something go wrong, should something happen for which he was not prepared, he would be better able to deal with it from the relative familiarity of his own room.
However, as he made the coffee and took it upstairs, he told himself firmly that nothing was going to go wrong. This final act between them would be effected quickly and efficiently, and hopefully with sufficient finesse to make it endurable for both of them.
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