A Guilty Passion Page 15

  “What will?” she asked ironically.

  “I'll get you a cup of coffee,” he said, and left the room.

  When he returned, she said, “I ... have to leave here. Tomorrow I'll arrange a flight."

  “So that you can rejoin your lover?"

  Steven is not my lover. But he wouldn't believe that. She must get away from here anyway. Obviously it was an impossible situation. “You don't want me,” she said.

  “I'm not asking you to leave,” Ethan said in a strange voice. Then he said, “Do you want to go?"

  She looked up into his dark, unreadable eyes, and to her utter dismay felt her eyes fill hotly with tears that spilled down her cheeks onto the pillow before she could hide them.

  Ethan drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, my God! Don't!"

  He put down the cup he was holding, and sank onto the bed beside her, his hand sliding into her hair, pulling her towards him. His mouth met hers in a hard, seeking and somehow angry kiss, his thumbs on her cheeks wiping the tears away.

  She lay in his arms like a rag doll, unable to resist or respond, feeling nothing. He eased himself away from her, still holding her head in his hands, and gradually he let her down against the pillow. She closed her eyes but the tears kept coming, silently. There was nothing she could do about them. She felt the backs of his fingers against her cheek, brushing them away, then his lips, soft and warm on her skin.

  “Please, Celeste,” he whispered. “Please stop."

  “I can't,” she murmured. “I can't help it. Just go away and leave me alone."

  After a moment she felt him shift back. “If that's what you want."

  She nodded frantically, and his weight lifted off the bed. She heard him move away. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

  In the morning she could scarcely drag herself out of bed. Ethan was in the house when she went down, rising to his feet instantly as she appeared.

  “You look awful,” he said bluntly. “What do you want for breakfast?"

  She didn't feel like eating, but she said, “I'll make some toast."

  She drank a cup of tea, but it was all she could do to eat half a slice of toast. Ethan said, “You must have more."

  Celeste shook her head. “I can't.” She felt slightly sick, the sight of food making it worse, but mostly she just felt dead inside. “I never have much breakfast, anyway,” she mumbled. “I'll feel better later."

  She didn't, much, but she managed to hide it from him, she thought. For days she went through the motions of living, cooking, eating, and didn't realise how her shoulders drooped, that her eyes were shadowed and lifeless, and her mouth pale and taut. When it was time for her lesson with Janice she phoned and said she wouldn't be coming. Most of the days she spent pretending to read, or just sitting on the beach staring at the sea. Ethan's covert gaze became increasingly anxious, but she didn't notice.

  A letter came from Steven for her. Ethan brought it to where she sat in the lounger on the terrace, a book on her knee that she had been reading without comprehension. She had refused the offer to accompany him into town, not able to summon the energy and glad of the chance to be alone. Ethan tapped the envelope thoughtfully against his hand, then tossed it into her lap. “For you,” he said briefly.

  He was waiting for her to open it. She lifted the flap and slipped out the two sheets of paper. Some of the words were almost illegible, and she guessed that Steven had written in haste.

  Dear Celeste,

  I didn't want to go without saying goodbye to you, but it seemed best not to disturb you, as Ethan said.

  I'll be reading these notes just as soon as I get the chance, and then maybe I will be able to get on with finishing Alec's work. He must have felt it was very important stuff, to go to the trouble of keeping it secret with a password. I'm sure the disk must contain the missing pieces without which it would be impossible to proceed. Ethan has a printout, I know, but as he says, it's not his field and he wouldn't be able to make sense of it.

  I could see you haven't yet recovered from all that's happened. Please take care of yourself. Give Ethan my regards.

  Love, Steven.

  Slowly, Celeste folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope. Ethan was still watching her.

  “Well?” he said harshly. “What does he have to say?"

  “Not very much. He sent you his regards."

  “And what did he send you? His love?"

  She looked at him distantly, and said with a resigned little smile, “Yes."

  He made a derisive sound. “How could you even look at that miserable imitation of a man when you had Alec?"

  Mechanically, without hope, she said, “I know it's no use trying to convince you, Ethan, but I've never had an affair with Steven."

  “Perhaps you hadn't exactly got round to it yet,” he drawled, “but it must have been on the cards."

  Wearily, she got up. “Only in Alec's mind. But you can't believe that your adored big brother was anything less than perfect, can you? Or that he could ever have been wrong?"

  She turned away from him and went into the house. She should go and see Janice, who would be expecting her for another lesson. It was difficult to work up any enthusiasm, but at least it would get her away from Ethan's suffocating presence.

  Janice took one look at her and said, “Whatever has happened, Celeste?"

  Smiling wanly, Celeste asked, “Is it that obvious?"

  “That something's wrong, yes. You were looking so much better, too!"

  “Was I? I guess I was feeling better for a while. Now, I must admit I don't care."

  “About what?"

  “About anything.” With an effort, she smiled and said, “Well, art is supposed to be good therapy. Let's get on, shall we?"

  Deducing that she didn't want to talk, Janice said, “All right. Your silk is ready for painting. The secret is to work fast and with a steady hand. Begin in the middle of each section, and allow the paint to spread to the lines of gutta...."

  The paint began drying quickly, and when it was done, Celeste was not satisfied that the design met her original concept, but Janice declared it not bad for a first effort. “When it's properly dry,” she said, “you can heat-set it with an iron, and then it should be colourfast for hand washing. You can get brush-on or spray fixatives for some brands of silk paints, but if you're careful with the iron, this method is quite satisfactory.” Not until Celeste was leaving again did she say, hinting at their earlier conversation, “If there's anything Henry and I can do, let us know, won't you?"

  Vaguely she knew that Ethan was holding rigidly in check an explosive mixture of anxiety, anger and frustration, while he exercised a monumental patience with her. But she floated through the days in a protective cocoon of indifference. Jeff was puzzled, and the Palmers concerned, but she scarcely noticed any of them. Only Ethan occasionally pierced the apathy that was her armour against the world—and against any encroachment on her emotions. She knew that she was living on the edge of a volcano, that she was mad to remain with a man who hated her and who had no faith in her integrity. But she stayed on, held by nothing more, it seemed, than a massive disinclination to take any sort of initiative.

  One night when she was picking at her food as usual, Ethan snapped, “For heaven's sake, eat it! It won't poison you!"

  “I'm just not hungry.” She pushed the plate away and stood to take it off the table.

  Ethan leaned over and grabbed her arm, forcing her back into her chair. With his other hand he plonked the plate in front of her again. “Eat it!” he said ominously.

  “I'm not a child.” She looked down at the plate, revolted at the sight of ravioli and salad.

  “Then stop behaving like one,” Ethan snapped, “and eat your dinner."

  “I don't want it."

  “What are you trying to do?” he demanded. “Starve yourself to death?"

  She raised her eyes to his. “I'd have thought you'd like that."
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br />   He went white around the mouth. “I don't want you dead, Celeste."

  “What do you want, Ethan?” She was still staring at him.

  “At the moment,” he said with determined calm, “for you to eat your dinner."

  With a flash of temper, she said, “Oh, the hell with the damned dinner!” And without even thinking about it, she put a hand under the plate and tipped it neatly over onto the tiled floor.

  She looked down with dull surprise at the mess spreading under the broken plate. It was the first time in her life she had done anything like that. Glancing at Ethan with some apprehension, she found the expression on his face changing from understandable exasperation to inexplicable satisfaction.

  She said with difficulty, “I'm sorry. That was childish. I'll clean it up."

  He got up and helped her with silent efficiency. She couldn't figure out why he seemed quietly pleased with himself. He didn't insist again that she eat something, but when he brought out cheese and biscuits while she made coffee, and put a biscuit on her plate with a slice of Gruyère, she meekly ate it.

  A few days later while she was lazing on the beach after a swim, he came down the path and stood beside her, wearing a towel about his waist and surveying the modest one-piece that had already dried on her body.

  “Come into the water with me,” he said.

  “No, thanks.” She closed her eyes.

  “I said, come in,” he reiterated, and she felt his hand on her wrist, drawing her to her feet.

  “I've had a swim."

  “Have another."

  She gave a halfhearted tug at her wrist, and looked up at him. His eyes were gleaming, expectant, almost as though he anticipated a fight and was looking forward to it. She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Oh, all right,” she muttered.

  He didn't seem pleased, quite the reverse. His mouth went grim, but he discarded the towel, revealing dark briefs, and kept a hold on her wrist until they were in the water, then struck out strongly away from her and circled back. “You okay?” he enquired, shaking water from his eyes.

  “Yes, of course."

  “Want to try for the rock out there?” He indicated the flat, bare little rock that rose from the sea just past the point.

  “No, thanks."

  “You're not out of practice now. You've swum almost every day."

  “It's too far,” she lied. She had swum out there a couple of times with Jeff.

  “Afraid I'll have to tow you back?” he taunted. “But you might enjoy that."

  “I didn't last time."

  “Tell that to the marines,” he scoffed, and swam away from her on a diagonal path, heading for the rock.

  She hesitated, then struck out after him, drawing level and trying to pass him. He kept up with her, though, and they arrived together, climbing onto the smooth rock, only a few feet out of the water. Celeste lay back, panting.

  Ethan loomed over her. “I didn't suggest a race,” he told her.

  “It wasn't a race.” She turned over on her stomach, pillowing her cheek on one arm. “I just changed my mind."

  He sat beside her with one knee drawn up, and when she peeped at him she could see he was scowling into space. She rolled over and sat up.

  Ethan turned and looked at her. His gaze was like an examination, as though he was searching for flaws.

  “Do I pass?” she asked flippantly.

  “Oh, you more than pass, Celeste,” he said. “You always did."

  She looked away from him, towards the land. The fast swim, or the stimulus of Ethan's uncomfortable presence, seemed to have momentarily cleared her brain. “What do you know about Alec's mother?” she asked him.

  “What?” The question was obviously unexpected.

  “Alec's mother.” Celeste turned to him. “She left when he was six or seven. That's all I know. I wondered how he felt about that."

  “He never spoke of it. I don't know any more than you do. He could hardly have remembered her,” Ethan added dismissively.

  “All the same, it must have affected him, at that vulnerable age."

  “His father more than made up for it. They were very close, right up until Dad died."

  “Did you mind that? You told me once he was the only father you had known."

  “I wasn't jealous. My stepfather was very good to me."

  “Alec said his father was very bitter over his mother. They must have discussed her."

  “I suppose they did, at some stage. I daresay Dad would have explained—tried to explain—what had happened."

  “When Alec told me about his mother, he said, ‘The bitch left us.’”

  Ethan looked faintly startled.

  “I asked him if he'd ever seen her again, maybe tried to contact her when he was older. He said he wouldn't have crossed the street to give her the time of day."

  He said nothing, but Celeste could tell it was news to him. “Do you know?” she pressed on, “I think that in a way, he blamed your mother for his father's death.” Ethan's mother had been hospitalised for weeks before her death of a kidney disease, and his stepfather had suffered a fatal heart attack only days after her funeral.

  “That's nonsense."

  “I know,” Celeste agreed. “But our feelings are not always rational. I think he felt that ... that your stepfather loved your mother more than his own son. That once she was gone, he had nothing to live for, not even Alec.” She was thinking aloud, trying to make sense of a whole lot of random remarks and casual conversations from the past, fumbling for some sort of rationale. She felt she was on the verge of understanding something.

  “There was no question of loving anyone more!” Ethan said harshly. “Alec was an adult by the time his father remarried. He always got on perfectly fine with my mother—and with me."

  “I know. Well, you were hardly competition, were you, being so much younger? And not his father's own son. But your mother couldn't take the place of his own mother, could she? It was too late for that."

  “What are you getting at?"

  “I think ... somewhere inside Alec was an insecure little boy who felt betrayed by his mother."

  Ethan gave a scornful laugh. “Alec was one of the most confident people I knew. He could do anything. Even after he was disabled, he gritted his teeth and forged a totally new career, kept himself at the forefront of his profession. Everyone looked up to Alec. You can't saddle him with an inferiority complex."

  Celeste sighed. “I'm not trying to saddle him with anything. I just want to try to understand him."

  “Really. It's a pity you didn't try harder when he was alive then, isn't it?"

  Celeste stood up. “The trouble with you is, you've made up your mind, and you don't want to consider any facts that could lead you to change it,” she said. “In some ways, you are very much like your brother."

  Ethan stood, too, big and angry, and she instinctively took a step back. “Don't try to blacken Alec's character to me, Celeste! If I'm like him in any way, I can only be proud of the fact."

  “Yes,” she said. “You would be. Even if it means you're both wilfully blind and prejudiced because of what goes on in your own sick little minds. It's only now that I'm beginning to see what Alec did to me."

  “Huh! What he did to you?” Ethan said.

  “Yes! Oh, I'm not saying I'm totally blameless. Perhaps if I'd been older, I might have understood the demons that drove him. I might have coped better, been able to help him. As it was, all I could think of was to try to be what he wanted, what he seemed to want. I let him stifle my personality, curb how I expressed myself. I even changed the way I looked. And he was never satisfied, because he was trying to kill the very things that had attracted him to me in the first place."

  “That's not true,” Ethan contradicted her. “Alec never tried to curb you or repress you."

  She cried, “How would you know?"

  “I told you—he wrote me letters."

  “Letters!"

  “Yes, letters."

/>   “What exactly did he accuse me of?"

  Ethan said, “He never accused you of anything. The man bloody worshipped you! No matter how much you hurt and humiliated him, he let you go your own sweet way because he was terrified of losing you. He was so damned tolerant of your youth, your natural high spirits, your love of pretty things and what he thought of as your naive love of being admired—it just about broke my heart. Anyone reading between the lines could see he was bleeding to death over your heartlessness, your selfishness, your greed for clothes, for money, for admiration. And for sex, although he didn't ever want to believe you'd go to another man for that."

  As her cheeks flamed, his mouth twisted in an ugly line. “Well, we know the truth about that, don't we? And in the end you didn't even allow him that illusion, did you? You took my brother for a fool, Celeste. Don't ever think you can do the same to me."

  Chapter Twelve

  Celeste closed her eyes in horror. Now she understood Ethan's suspicion of her, his hostility. She could imagine the letters, knew just how they would have appeared to him. And the worst of it was, Alec had honestly thought that he was trying to understand her, to make the best of things, while inside him his jealousy grew day by day like a monstrous cancer, warping his judgement and torturing him with baseless suspicions. And all her desperate efforts to conform with his apparent wishes had been futile. She had tried so hard to make a good thing of her marriage, ruthlessly suppressed her own needs, even her own natural exuberance, refused to countenance any thought of Ethan and the sweet, snatched moments they had shared—and all for nothing. It had not made Alec happy. It had not erased the emotional scars of his mother's desertion and his father's hurt bitterness, or convinced him of his wife's devotion. And worse, Ethan did not believe that she had even tried.

  She turned away from him, her whole stance defeated. He gripped her arm and swung her back to face him, lifting her chin rather roughly with his other hand, finding her eyes glazed and lifeless.

  “Don't crawl back into that shell again,” he said. “Not now.” He moved his hands to her shoulders and gave her an impatient little shake. “Wake up, Celeste, damn you! I won't let you retreat from me again!"