Guilty Passion (13 page)

He groaned and suddenly pulled her head to his shoulder, his hands shaking as he smoothed her hair. Instinctively, she put her arms about his waist, her face against his shirt. They stood like that for a long time, then she eased away from him. He let her go reluctantly, his hands going to her shoulders, sliding down her arms, still holding her hands as she stepped back from him. He looked down at them, and turned over the one he had put the plaster on, raising it to his cheek. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered. “So am I, Ethan. Good night, my darling.”

She knew it was goodbye, and so did he. But she went to the door and passed through it without a backward glance. While his heart called to hers she walked steadily along the passageway and tried to shut off her mind and discipline her rebellious, tormented body. She undressed clumsily with trembling fingers, and got into bed beside her sleeping husband, to lie shivering and wakeful until daylight.

“So, you've been feeling guilty ever since,” Janice said, when she had heard Celeste's halting account. “You know, it's no sin to be tempted. And a couple of kisses hardly constitutes adultery.”

“Not legally, perhaps,” Celeste said.

“I know what you mean. But you're not able to help what's in your heart, Celeste. I don't think you should still be punishing yourself for a minor indiscretion that took place long ago. You were a loyal and faithful wife for eight years, weren't you?” At Celeste's nod, she added, “Doesn't that count for more than a few minutes of recklessness?”

It made sense, put like that. And yet. . .”I've
felt
unfaithful for seven years,” Celeste admitted. “And I'm sure that Alec knew it. That's what I can't forgive myself for. Making him conscious that. . . that he wasn't enough for me. It was the worst thing I could have done to him.”

“I take it the accident that put paid to his career also gave him something of a feeling of lost worth.”

“I didn't really know him until after he had the accident,” Celeste said. “But he was always trying to prove himself, one way or another.”

“If it was already a strong trait in his personality, becoming disabled and having his job and his life style severely curtailed may have intensified that.”

Celeste nodded. Then she said, “I've taken up enough of your time. Thanks for listening, Janice.”

“No problem. Sometimes it helps just to talk.”

When she emerged from the path, Ethan was standing at the edge of the terrace, his hands thrust into his pockets. She paused, almost afraid to approach him, then went on slowly, feeling a deadweight of dread inside her. Things change, he had said to her. And people. Once they had shared something—at first attraction and liking, then emotions much more powerful, wonderful but potentially destructive. Now they were bound by something else, something dark and dangerous.

When she stopped a few yards away, he shifted his feet and surveyed her with a deliberate and almost insulting scrutiny.

She asked, “Where's Steven?”

“Gone to get his things from Jeff's while we wait for the computer to finish a printout. I'm taking him into Conneston for the flight to Sydney.”

“You found the password?”

“We found the password. Steven thought of it, naturally. I don't know what took him so long. It was so obvious, really. Only we've been hunting for something to do with Alec's work, not his private life. I should have known that you were never far from his thoughts.”

“I don't understand. What does it have to do with me?”

“Can't you guess? He used your name. That was the key. Celeste.”

“Oh. So you. . . you read the document?”

“Oh, yes. Called it up on the screen and there it was. Steven's quite excited about it.”

“I'm glad.”

“For Steven?” He seemed to be staring at her very hard.

“Yes. And for you. . . but for. . . Alec, too.”

“Oh, yes. Alec.”

“You want his work to be published, don't you? You said it would be a shame if it was all lost.”

“Yes, I want it published. I wish,” he added, in a tone of low savagery, “that I didn't have to rely on Steven Craig to ensure that. Unfortunately, he's the only one who knows enough about the project to be able to finish it.”

“Why do you dislike him so much?”

“Oh, come on!” he said. “You know why!”

Celeste shook her head. “I don't understand you.”

“You can hardly expect me to like the little rat who was making love to Alec's wife while he—”

Her voice shaking, she interrupted him. “
He was not!
”

“Prove it!” he shot at her. “He answers the description in Alec's last letter. Fits it to a tee.”

“Ethan!” she said despairingly. “How can I prove anything to you? There was
no one
! I swear it on Alec's grave!”

His face looked pinched. “Do you really think I'd believe that. Against Alec's word—against his death?”

She stared at him wordlessly, then pushed past him into the house and went upstairs.

She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling and trying very hard to think of nothing, to empty her mind completely. She heard Steven's arrival and their footsteps coming up the stairs and into the workroom. Minutes later, Steven was thanking Ethan profusely, cut off by Ethan's incisive tones.

“I should say goodbye to Celeste,” she heard Steven say. They must have been standing almost directly outside her door.

“She's resting,” Ethan said. “I'll tell her for you. Come on, if you're to catch that plane we'd better get going.”

When he arrived back, she was still lying there in gathering darkness. After some time he came up and tapped on the door. When she didn't answer, he opened it and went over to the bed. Her eyes were open, and he said, “Are you ill?”

“No,” she said remotely. “Just tired.”

“You've had nothing to eat, have you?”

Her head moved slightly from side to side. “I'm not hungry.”

“You must eat. Starving yourself won't do any good.”

“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.”

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.