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  Karen felt suddenly furiously angry. How dare he speak to her like that. She felt she was about six inches high and that he was stooping to even speak to her. He wasn’t even near the truth. Of course, she had sometimes prayed he still loved her, but as of this moment she felt sure she had been imagining a lot of things. She felt the pain in her ankle and wished she could get up this minute and run out of here, away from him and his hateful comments. But she could not. She was tied to the couch for the time being and was forced to endure whatever else was to come.

  She bent her head, and looked intently at her fingernails to avoid looking at him. The only saving in his remarks had been when he said she was physically attractive to him. Wanting to hurt him now as he had hurt her, she swung her legs to the ground and said:

  “And is your dear fiancée aware of your … er … sexual reaction to me? I mean … have you discussed it over lunch or something?”

  She was maliciously glad when she saw him look uncomfortable and turn away, drawing on his cigarette. She had certainly chosen the right reply to his comments. Although she felt she was acting by remote control, Karen now felt in a more favourable situation. Now she had him on the mental hook.

  “Don’t be coarse,” he snapped angrily.

  Karen managed a half laugh. “Darling,” she exclaimed, “where’s your sense of humour? Oh, I can quite see that telling Ruth wouldn’t be very practical, would it?”

  “Shut up!” he muttered, swinging round on her.

  “Why? I’m only telling the truth, Paul. I’m sure Ruth wouldn’t find it at all understandable; your being interested in me, I mean. Nor should I in her position. She might think you were still hankering after old times.”

  “You killed any love I had for you two years ago,” he said, his face grim. “In a divorce court, or had you forgotten? There, is that blatant enough for you? O.K., you want it out in the open, now you’ve got it.”

  “You divorced me, remember?” she said, through tight lips.

  “Do I?” he groaned, clenching his fists.

  He stubbed out his cigarette in a brass ashtray and paced up and down. Then after a while he turned on her again.

  “Do you honestly believe that I might consider taking you back after you’ve been Martin’s mistress?”

  Karen’s face burned. She put up her hands and covered her cheeks. God, what did he think of her?

  “I was never Martin’s mistress,” she spat angrily. “Not then, or now. That was a gorgeous story you concocted to give me my freedom, as you put it at the time. Or was it you who wanted to be free? Then of course, Lewis’s visits to the apartment made very interesting evidence …”

  “Very interesting,” agreed Paul coldly. “I suppose you say they were innocent?”

  “Yes, I do. Good heavens, Paul, do you think I could become seriously involved with a man more than twenty years my senior? Besides, Lewis is not my type.”

  “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?” he exclaimed sceptically.

  “Please yourself,” replied Karen, feeling chilled to the bone.

  Paul crossed to the window. “And are you going to tell Ruth how I … well … feel?” he asked slowly.

  Karen gasped. “Hell, what an opinion you have of me!” she cried in exasperation. “I have no intention of blackmailing you if that’s what you mean. You simply amuse me, that’s all.”

  “Do I?” he muttered angrily, swinging round, his eyes glittering. He took a step towards her and Karen’s body froze into immobility.

  But whatever he was about to say or do was interrupted by a light knock on the door.

  Paul thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. “Come in,” he muttered, and Benson put his head round the door.

  “Sorry to intrude, sir,” he began, “but will you be staying for dinner, after all?”

  Paul looked thoughtfully at Karen and hesitated for only a moment.

  “No,” he replied abruptly. “We’ll be leaving almost immediately. Will you put Miss Stacey’s car in the garage for tonight, and I’ll have Edwards collect it tomorrow. He can take it back to town. Miss Stacey is not in a fit state to drive tonight. I’ll take her back to town myself.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Benson promptly, but Karen protested.

  “It’s not necessary that you should take me,” she exclaimed. But Paul silenced her by a pointed glance at her foot and she had to give in. It was true, her foot would not have the strength to work the pedals in the car. She was virtually at his mercy and she cursed her ankle anew. Because of it so many things had happened and so much had been said.

  And yet, she thought wryly, she would not have wanted to relinquish those moments when Paul was making love to her. She would treasure those.

  “Right,” said Paul, dismissing Benson. “I expect to see you later in the week.”

  Benson smiled at Karen. “Will your ankle be all right, madam?”

  “I think so, thanks,” said Karen, smiling in return. “It’s been so nice seeing you, Benson.”

  “It’s been nice to see you, too, madam,” replied Benson warmly, and with a nod to Paul he left them.

  Karen gripped the side of the couch and tried to stand up. She managed to balance on one leg, stork-like, but Paul moved forward and before she had a chance to protest, lifted her into his arms. He was not prepared to let her stagger out to the car.

  His face was so close, only an enormous effort of willpower prevented her from touching him.

  He carried her out to the car and put her into the front beside the driver’s seat. Then he walked round the bonnet and slid in beside her.

  Mr. and Mrs. Benson came to the door to wave and they watched the car purr away down the drive. The powerful engine opened up as they descended the hill, and then they were out on the open road again.

  Karen shivered. “I adore this car,” she said, without being able to prevent herself.

  “Good!” He raised his eyebrows and looked quizzically at her. “You’ll be happy to learn that I chose it myself. It’s a Facel Vega.”

  Karen was impressed in spite of herself. “You never drove anything like this in the old days.”

  Paul couldn’t suppress an amused exclamation. “You preferred the Rolls, as I recall,” he remarked dryly. “I simply felt like a change.”

  “Well, it’s certainly luxurious,” she said lightly.

  Paul drove expertly and Karen thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of being with him again. The incident at the house was pushed into the back of her mind, and she determined to keep their conversation in this light vein.

  As they neared her apartment, Paul said: “Give me your garage key, Karen, and I’ll have Edwards put the car away when he brings it up tomorrow. He can leave the keys with the hall porter and you can collect them from him.”

  “All right,” Karen rummaged through her purse, looking for the garage keys. After searching for several minutes, during which time the car halted outside the block of apartments, she still could not find the keys. “I must have left them all in the car,” she said apologetically. “I have a spare key in the apartment, and that will be better because there are quite a lot of keys on the key-ring in the car, and it would take him some time to distinguish one from the other. If you care to come up to the apartment I could give you the one key necessary.”

  Paul looked strangely and intently at her, and with an exclamation of annoyance she emptied the contents of her purse on to the seat between them. There were some scribbled notes for shopping, her wallet-purse, a lipstick and powder compact and a pair of ear-rings. There were no keys.

  “Satisfied?” she asked angrily, staring at him. “If you wait here I’ll go and get the blasted key and bring it down to you. You’re obviously terrified to come up.”

  “Terrified?” he muttered, softly and menacingly.

  “Yes, terrified,” she replied bravely. “Don’t alarm yourself. I won’t try to vamp you.”

  Paul half smiled, and slid out of the car. Before he
had circled the bonnet, Karen had slid out also and hopped on one leg up the steps to the entrance hall. It was a slow and awkward business, but she was determined to be independent.

  Shrugging his broad shoulders, he followed her. She said a few words to the hall porter and was on her way again before he caught up with her. Then he said:

  “Tired?”

  “No, I can manage. Don’t you dare touch me.”

  Paul shook his head and followed her into the lift.

  It was nearly six-thirty when Karen reached the apartment. She had borrowed the pass key from the porter to open her apartment as all her keys were still on the key-ring at Trevayne.

  Inside, the apartment was warm and attractive, and Karen hopped inside awkwardly, allowing him to follow her if he chose. She half expected him to wait on the doorstep, but he followed her in and closed the door firmly, leaning back against it. It was his first real chance to see the place in which she was living and he looked round with undisguised interest.

  Karen removed her sheepskin coat and crossed the lounge slowly to the bedroom. Her spare keys were in the dressing-table drawer, and she retrieved them and came back into the lounge to find Paul wandering around, studying the paintings on the walls.

  Karen hesitated. “Dare I offer you a drink?” she asked pointedly.

  Paul swung round and smiled. “I guess so,” he answered smoothly. “But don’t disturb yourself, I’ll get it.”

  He poured two whiskies, adding some soda to one and handed it to her. Then he resumed his wanderings. The abstract paintings obviously interested him, for he was studying each one in turn.

  He turned round as she dropped down on to the couch.

  “These are exceptionally good,” he said, nodding to the pictures. “Who did them?”

  “Me,” she replied at once, rather ungrammatically.

  “You!” he echoed. “Really? I never knew you were interested in this kind of art. I thought your designing was all that interested you.”

  Karen shrugged her slim shoulders. “It’s my hobby. I have a lot of spare time and I’ve taken up the other end of the artist’s brush.”

  Paul nodded slowly. “You never cease to amaze me,” he remarked dryly. “But tell me, you must know they’re good. Have you tried to sell them?”

  Karen shook her head. “Let’s be realistic, Paul,” she said. “There are dozens of artists trying to sell this kind of thing. It’s in vogue now. What chance would I have? Besides, Lewis thinks …” She broke off, annoyed with herself for bringing Lewis’s name into it.

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Yes? And what does Martin think?”

  Karen bit her lip. “Well … he thinks they’re all right, but definitely non-commercial. Rather amusing for my entertainment, but dull.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows and looked very surprised. He swallowed the rest of his drink.

  “Does he now?” he said thoughtfully. “Then I’m afraid that not for the first time, I must disagree with him. I think they’re very good. So much so that I should like to buy one myself.”

  Karen’s face was scarlet. “Oh, please, Paul,” she cried, “don’t mention money between us.” She got up and turned away. “If there’s one you would like, I’ll willingly give it to you. Goodness knows, I have plenty.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “That’s hardly businesslike,” he remarked dryly.

  Karen swung round on her good foot. “Do we have to be businesslike with each other?”

  Paul shrugged and poured himself a second drink.

  “All right,” he said easily. He crossed the room to a bright, vivid painting splashed with reds and greens and yellows. “I’d like this one,” he said thoughtfully. “It reminds me of the sunsets we used to see from the windows at Trevayne.”

  “How clever of you,” she said, smiling. “That’s exactly what it is intended to be.”

  He looked at her intently. “Yes. Well, we always had an affinity in things, remember?”

  Karen shivered. Did she remember? If he only knew how tortuous those memories still were.

  “I remember,” she murmured softly, and he swallowed the remainder of his drink.

  “I must go,” he said, a trifle thickly. “I have an appointment.”

  “All right, Paul.” She lifted down the picture. “You might as well take it with you.”

  He took it from her, carefully avoiding any contact with her skin.

  “Who knows?” he remarked dryly. “It may be worth a fortune, one day.”

  “I should say that was hardly likely,” replied Karen quietly. “Oh, here’s the garage key, and would you give the pass key back to the porter, please?”

  He fingered the keys. “All right,” he murmured. “Look after your ankle, won’t you?”

  “Do you really care, Paul?” she asked mockingly, trying to disperse the air of melancholy she was feeling at his departure. The last few minutes had been so deliciously natural and now he was going back to Ruth.

  “Yes, I care,” he muttered, and turning, he walked out of the apartment, banging the door behind him.

  Karen stared after him, her heart thumping. Just what had that remark implied? Nothing like so much as she imagined, she was sure, but it was nice to think that they had parted on better terms.

  She hobbled over to the wall where the painting had hung. Not for anything would she have told him that that was her own favourite. It was sufficient to know that he had it and might look at it sometimes. Would he think of her when he did so? She hoped so. At least a small part of his attention would be hers sometimes and the idea was warming.

  She sighed and lit a cigarette. In a little over two months he would be married again. Two months! Could she bear the idea? And when it was all over she would continually think of them together and envy Ruth. Was life going to be worth living? She felt the now ever-ready tears pricking at her eyes. Might it not be as well for her to leave England all together? She could probably get a job in South Africa or Australia if she really wanted to. She had good qualifications and Lewis could vouch for her. If he would? It might be just what she needed. A change of air.

  But then the thought of being thousands of miles away from Paul did not much agree with her. At least here in London he could contact her if he ever needed her. In Australia he would not know where to find her. She could hardly give him a forwarding address. No. She would stay. At least for the time being. There were still two months before the fatal event.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ABOUT a week later, Paul was about to leave his office to go out to lunch when the internal telephone pealed. Frowning, he lifted the receiver, and to his surprise Simon’s voice answered him:

  “Paul, I’m glad I’ve caught you. Could I see you right away?”

  Paul glanced at his watch. He had an engagement for lunch with a textile merchant from the Midlands. They were to have lunch at the Bermudan, which was a large hotel near the office building, and as the appointment was Hot until one o’clock, he had twenty minutes to spare.

  “All right, Simon,” he said, a little impatiently. What on earth could Simon want now? “Will you come up here?”

  “Yes, I’ll come right up.” Simon rang off, and Paul lay back in his chair, thoughtfully studying the telephone. He hoped Simon was not in more trouble.

  Remembering the business of Simon and Sandra brought back memories of Karen and their last meeting together. His thoughts had turned often in that direction since he had seen her, and he wondered what she had thought of him. He pondered too, on what might have happened had he kissed her in that way at her apartment instead of at Trevayne. At the apartment they would have been completely alone and undisturbed without Mrs. Benson to interrupt them with a tea trolley. It was quite a thought, and he felt the blood heat in his veins at the memory of her warm mouth. It was all right telling yourself coldly and logically that you had no intention of becoming emotionally involved with any woman, ever again, but when the practical aspects of such a theory were put to the te
st, the solution was not so simple. And he was convinced that Ruth would never disturb his deeper emotions whatever situation they were presented with. That, too, was quite a thought.

  When Simon arrived, Paul’s secretary showed him in. He looked rather anxious and agitated and stood before Paul’s desk, fidgeting with his tie.

  “Well, Simon,” said Paul, swinging his chair backwards and forwards in a circular movement as was the usual motion of these chairs. His cool eyes surveyed his brother’s flushed face. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, that is …” Simon sank down into the chair opposite him. “Paul, I’m not finding this easy, and you’re not making it any easier.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” remarked Paul, rather dryly. “Come on, Simon. I’ve a luncheon appointment at one. Get it over with. Is it money?”

  “No. It’s Sandra Stacey.” It came out with a rush.

  Paul stopped swinging his chair abruptly. “What?”

  “You heard,” said Simon awkwardly. “I’ve been meeting her. Since we had our little … chat.”

  “I see.” Paul sounded uncompromising.

  “Have you nothing to say?” Simon asked, desperately.

  “I’m saving judgment,” replied Paul slowly. “I’m giving you credit in that I believe there must be an explanation for this. Is there?”

  “Yes – that is, you might not think it sufficient.”

  “Well, do go on,” muttered Paul, trying to contain his annoyance.

  “Sandra started telephoning me, after I stopped seeing her. She even went so far as to ring me at home. She also wrote me letters, you can imagine the kind of letters, I suppose and … well … Julia started getting angry and I agreed to meet Sandra to call it off.”

  Paul helped himself to a cigarette from the box on his desk and flicked his lighter. He replaced the lighter in his pocket and continued his study of his brother.

  “Well,” continued Simon, “when we met she started threatening all sorts of things if I called it off. I was stupid, I know, but I allowed her to win. Anyway, now, things are getting out of hand. She’s wanting more than I’m prepared to give her … marriage, for one thing.”