The Divided Child (37 page)

           
His
grip on my wrist hurt, but what hurt more was the frightening stranger he'd
suddenly become -- had always been?
 
Up to that moment, despite my doubts and suspicions, a part of me hadn't
really believed him a man capable of true violence.
 
I hadn't believed he could hurt Michael -- or me.
  
But suddenly there was something
dangerous, something terrifyingly determined about him.
 
I forced myself to stay calm, to speak
quietly, not to let my voice betray the sudden fear I felt inside.
 
"Very well, I promise.
 
I won't tell anyone that I saw you down
at the port yesterday.
 
Now will
you please let me go?"

           
He
acquiesced immediately.
 
I rubbed
the red mark on my wrist and his gaze followed the motion.
 
"I'm sorry," he said roughly,
"I didn't mean to hurt you."

           
"Didn't
you?" I pushed back my chair and stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me,
I'd better get back and pack my things before your sister-in-law decides to
just dump them by the side of the road."

           
I
started to walk out, but as I passed the last table I was waylaid by George.
 
"You're leaving?" he
exclaimed in surprise.
 
"Something wrong with the food?"

           
"No,
of course not.
 
It was
delicious.
 
It's just --"

           
"It's
just Christine has had a long and trying day and is feeling all done in,"
Geoffrey said, coming up behind me.
 
"Please excuse us, George, but I'd best get her back
before she drops in her tracks.
 
How much do I owe you for our delicious repast?"

           
George
refused to produce a bill, claiming the whole thing was on the house, and
Geoffrey didn't argue, merely thanked him and assured him they'd settle up
later.
 
Sliding his arm through
mine, Geoffrey led the way toward the car.
 
I would have pulled away, but George's delicious and deceptively
potent wine was affecting my locomotive skills, and before I knew it, Geoffrey
had eased me into the black Mercedes and slammed the door shut.

           
He
jerked open the driver's side door and slid in next to me, flashing me one
brief but searching look.
 
Then he
started the engine and sent the car roaring down the highway toward
Ithaki
.

           
We
drove for some minutes without either of us saying a word
  
Then I did something amazingly
stupid.
 
I don't know if it was the
wine, or the accumulated stress of the day, or just my desperate desire to know
regardless of the consequences, but I suddenly blurted out into the thick, warm
air between us, "What did you and your brother argue about on the day that
he died?"

           
Silence.
 
Geoffrey greeted the question with
absolute silence. If not for his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and
his foot slamming down on the accelerator pedal, I would have wondered if he'd
heard me at all.
 
The already
speeding car flew forward.

           
We
skimmed round sharp curves accompanied by the sound of screeching rubber.
 
"Are you going to answer me?"
I asked over the pounding in my throat, "or are you simply planning to run
us off the road?"

           
His
breath caught sharply and the car slowed to a safer pace as we navigated the
last of the curves and descended to a wider stretch of highway.
 
"Who told you about this supposed
argument?"

           
"What
does it matter?" I hedged, realizing too late that I might be giving him a
stronger motive than money for wanting Michael out of the way.
 
"Did you or did you not have a
violent fight with your brother that day?"

           
He
nodded almost abstractedly as he guided the car off the road and brought it to
a halt.

           
"Why
have we stopped?" I demanded tensely.

           
"I
need to find out who told you about that row and precisely how much they
know."

           
"There's
something else," I said, playing for time.
 
"After you and your brother fought --”
 
My left hand slid stealthily toward the
seat belt release.
 
"-- your
brother called up Robert Humphreys's office saying that he wanted to change his
will."
 
I pressed the button
softly.
 
There was the smallest of
clicks.
 

           
"So
it was Robert who told you that my brother and I argued?"

           
The
seat belt began slipping back across my waist.
 
"You still haven't told me what the argument was
about," I countered, easing my right hand onto the door handle.
 
"Did your brother tell you he'd decided
to disinherit you?"

           
He
stared at me.
 
"Dammit,
Christine, just how much do you know?"

           
I
didn't answer.
 
Instead, I threw
open the door and started running, ignoring the exclamations of the man behind
me.

           
At
first I ran straight, like a horse bolting from the starting gate, but soon I
noticed a hulking, dark silhouette looming up ahead and realized I was running
straight toward the foot of a cliff.

           
"Christine,
wait!" he called out behind me.
 
"Come back!"

           
I
veered to the left, making a wide turn back toward the road.
 
Perhaps a passing car would see me.

           
"Christine!"

           
He
was gaining on me and I was starting to tire.
 
I pushed to go faster and stumbled, got up and kept
running.
 
My muscles began to
protest.
 
Only adrenalin kept me
going.
 
He was only yards behind me
now.
 
I burst through a thicket of
bushes and felt my sandals slap firm, flat asphalt.
 
Then I heard the sound of an approaching car.
 
Help at last.

           
I
waved my arms frantically, but though the car's headlights spilled over me,
illuminating my flailing signal for help, the car did not slow or veer, but
rather seemed to gather speed and aim directly for me.

           
"Jump!"
yelled a voice behind me, but somehow I couldn't seem to move.
 
I suppose my overtaxed system had had
enough.
  
I just stood there,
transfixed.
 
I closed my eyes, and
was hit with a force that sent me rolling off the road into a small trench as
the car went roaring by.

           
It
didn't take me long to realize what had hit me.
 
It was lying flat on top of me, angrily demanding to know if
I was alive.
 

           
I
squeaked out a faint affirmative with what little air was left in me.

           
"Well,
you don't deserve to be," Geoffrey growled into my neck.
 
"Why the bloody hell did you go
haring off like that?"

           
I
emitted a faint wheeze in reply.

           
"I
suppose I'm squashing you," he said, rolling off me.
 
His face, streaked with dirt and marked
by several cuts, was only inches from my own.
 
"Are you hurt?" he asked.

           
I
shook my head slightly.
 
"You?"
 

           
He
grimaced.
 
"I'll
live."
 

           
So
will I
, I thought,
but only because you risked your life to push me out
of the way in time.

           
His
eyes searched my face.
 
"You
do realize, don’t you, that you came within a hairsbreadth of getting yourself
killed?"

           
"I
know," I said, staring remorsefully at his torn shirt.
 
I touched the ragged edge of the tear,
my fingers lightly tracing the rise and fall of his chest.
 
"I'm sorry."

           
"And
well you should be," he muttered reprovingly, reaching out to pull me
tightly against him.
 
He rested one
hand warmly in the small of my back; the other stroked my hair and then tilted
my face toward his.
 
"You
turned my blood to ice when you ran out in front of that car,” he said in a
low, deep voice that seemed to ripple along my skin like a touch.
 
“The least you can do is turn it back again.”
 
He ran caressing fingers down the side
of my face, then with a fierce swoop of his mouth he kissed me.

           
His
blood may have been frozen, but his lips were warm and tasted faintly of wine,
which perhaps explains why I felt as if an entire bottle of George's finest was
being poured directly into my veins.
 
Intoxicated by his mouth and the feel of his body pressed against mine,
it was some time before I finally opened my eyes to find Geoffrey staring at
me, a dazed expression on his face.

           
"Defrosted
yet?" I asked breathlessly.

           
"Melted
to a puddle."

           
"You
don't have to sound so glum about it."

           
He
grimaced.
 
"Forgive a man his
frustration.
 
You're leaving in the
morning, and tonight -- well, the truth of it is I must be getting back to town
soon."
 
He brushed my lips
lightly with his own once more and then pulled away.

           
Silly
to feel rejected.
 
Especially by a
man from whom, ten minutes earlier, I had thought it necessary to flee.
 
"A prior engagement?"

           
"In
a manner of speaking."

           
"Well,
then, I guess we'd better get going."
 

           
Avoiding
my eyes, he nodded.
 
He helped me
to my feet, and together we started down the road.
 
I was surprised to find how far back the abandoned Mercedes
was parked; I had run quite a distance without knowing it.
 
So had my thoughts, I realized, as I
climbed back into the car and remembered the utter panic in which I'd left
it.
 
I had plenty of reasons to
mistrust Geoffrey, even to suspect him of the attacks on Michael, but I also had
reasons to believe him, to give him the benefit of the doubt, not least of
which was the fact he had just saved my life by risking his own.

           
Yes,
but why did he lie to you about which day he returned to Corfu?
a doubting
voice in my head demanded.
 
Why
didn't he tell you about the fight with his brother or about the will?
 
I yanked the seat belt across my chest
and shoved the latch into the buckle.

           
Geoffrey
flung himself into the seat next to me and started the car.
 
The Mercedes slid onto the highway, its
strong engine purring, the beams from its headlights ricocheting off cliffs and
curves and occasionally a car coming the other way.
 

           
We
drove for miles in silence.
 
Geoffrey kept his gaze fixed on the road, and
 
I kept sneaking glances at his profile.
 
He must have sensed my scrutiny, for he
turned his head abruptly, and our eyes met and locked.
 
"You still haven't answered my
question," he said.

           
"I'm
sorry, but I'm not going to tell you who told me about the fight with your
brother.
 
In the first place, it's
not my place to tell, and in the second, even if it were, I'm not sure telling
you would be a good idea."

           
Slowly,
he shook his head.
 
"That
wasn't the question I meant, Christine."

           
"Then
what --"

           
"I
wanted to know why you ran away from me.
 
But I suppose you've already given me the answer to that, haven't
you?"

           
I
suddenly felt my throat tighten.
 
"Geoffrey, I --"

           
He
cut me off.
 
"I can't say as I
blame you.
 
I'd probably think the
same if I were you."

           
"If
you'd only just explain --"

           
"But
I can't."
 
His voice was
rough.
 
"So that's that.
 
Anyway, we've arrived."
 
Startled, I saw the headlight beams hit
Ithaki
's gate.
 
The Mercedes
turned off the road but not down the drive.
 
Geoffrey got out and came round to open my door.
 
"You'd best get out here and walk
down," he said. "That way there won't be any awkward questions for
you to answer."