His words had made her unhappy, but only for a little while. It was natural that he should be angry, she reasoned with herself. Obviously he regretted his lack of self-control. Loving her, he must respect her … and of course, he wouldn’t want to make love to her until they were married.
Opening her eyes, Christy groaned. How naive and smug she had been. In reality Simon had been very far from loving her and had in fact, merely desired her. His anger had sprung from nothing more than simple frustration but she had not had the wit to see it, and so she had gone on building her ridiculous fairy castles in the air, sublimely unaware of the fragility of their foundations.
If her mother had not been so busy she might have realised sooner what was happening, but even if she had, Christy doubted that she would have realised her daughter’s foolish dreams. Christy had never been encouraged by her own mother to believe that marriage, a family and home should automatically be a woman’s goal in life; no, it was her own unrealistically romantic nature that had led her down that particular garden path. For all that she had known of the physical aspects of sex, she had known nothing of its sheer power … of its intensity, or that a man and woman could simply be drawn together by it in a relationship which had nothing to do with love.
Simon had made some attempt to warn her, she supposed, looking at it from his point of view. Before they left the beach he had turned to her and demanded sombrely, ‘You do know what it is that I want from you don’t you, Christy?’
And she, believing he meant that he wanted her love, replied dreamily, ‘Yes, and I want it too …’ Not realising that in his eyes she had committed herself to a sexual relationship with him that he had no intention of making anything more than extremely fleeting. All the evidence had been there; she had simply blinded herself to it, seeing only what she wanted to see, deceiving herself until it was impossible to deceive herself any longer; until Simon had simply been forced to tell her the truth; that he did not love her; never had loved her and had not the slightest intention of marrying her. Far from it!
Sighing, she roused herself and switched off the record player, making her way to bed.
It was ironic to think that sexually she was very little more experienced now than she had been then, although of course now she was much more aware of her body’s reactions and capabilities. There had been times when she had almost wished she could meet a man she simply desired physically. Someone who could release her body from its virginal bondage but thus far that had not happened, and as the years slipped by her virginity itself became something of a problem. She felt it was slightly ridiculous to be sexually unawakened at twenty-four, and often wondered wryly why nature had been unkind enough to burden the female race with a barrier that proclaimed its own truths and untruths. As she went up to bed she reassured herself that she had made the right decision in refusing to work for Simon. She wasn’t eighteen any more, ready to drop everything to run at his bidding. Let him look elsewhere for his assistance; if the gossip columns she read were only half right, it shouldn’t prove too strenuous a task.
She woke up early, watching the sun stretch lazy golden fingers through her window and knew it was going to be another fine day. She lay in bed, closing her eyes, basking in the heat coming through the glass—a deceptive heat; as deceptive as Simon’s feelings for her.
She could recognise now with maturity that the tense moods that had gripped him during that long ago summer had sprung from sexual frustration. Then she had been alternatively frightened and thrilled by them, skittish as a young foal, shying away from his touch while she entreated it. Images of Simon as he had been then danced behind her closed eyelids; Simon in tennis shorts and T-shirt, his skin bronzed and male; Simon in jeans, powerful and lithe as he worked in the garden and then most potent of all, Simon the night after they had had their quarrel.
She couldn’t remember how it had started; it had sprung up quickly like a summer thunder storm. Her mother had gone away to see a friend who had suddenly been taken into hospital and Jeremy had gone with her. She and Simon were alone in the house. His moods had grown worse and uncertain of him, wanting confirmation that he still loved her, she had used her mother’s absence to confront him that evening, going up to him and twining her arms round his neck, silently begging for his kiss. He had jerked away from her she remembered and had then come back to her, kissing her with an angry hunger that half-shocked her, releasing her to demand thickly, ‘What is it you want from me, Christy? This?’ He had kissed her again, forcing her mouth to part, infusing her with an intense heat as his hands moved seductively over her body. She was trembling when he released her she remembered. ‘Or is there a price attached to your love? Is it me you want … really me …’
‘You know I love you,’ she had cried out. She had seen the change in his expression when she mentioned the word ‘love’ but had not understood it—then!
‘Then come to bed with me now,’ he had responded thickly. ‘Come and show me how much you love me.’
She had hesitated, tense and unsure of him all of a sudden. ‘What’s the matter?’ he had demanded harshly, his eyes derisive. ‘Are you sure it’s me you’re in love with or simply the idea of being in love …? Is it me you want, Christy, or simply marriage, because I’m telling you now that marriage simply does not figure in my plans. I’ve got far too much living to do to tie myself down to one woman,’ he had told her brutally. ‘If you want to be part of that living then fine, but I can’t offer you permanency …’
She hadn’t been able to believe her ears. ‘You don’t want me,’ she had cried out childishly in pain.
‘Oh I want you all right.’ Simon’s voice had been curt, hard; his topaz eyes glittering hotly over her skin.
‘But I love you.’
He had laughed then, a harsh bitter sound. ‘What you feel isn’t love,’ he had told her with cruel astringency. ‘It’s physical desire, pure and simple. You haven’t the experience to love anyone, you’re still little more than a baby. Too frightened to live life alone … wanting marriage as a security blanket.’
She had cried out in anguish, hating him for what he was saying to her; for what he was doing to her fragile daydreams. She hadn’t been aware of him walking away, only of her pain.
The next day she had gone out of her way to avoid him, but that night, driven by the tension inside herself, she had gone to his room after he had gone to bed. He had been lying on his side, his skin exposed where he had kicked the bedclothes aside. She had caught her breath at the sight of him, tears stinging her eyes. She did love him … she did. She had crept nearer to the bed, stiffening when his eyes opened. For a moment they had simply looked at one another and then he had sat up, careless of the fact that he was naked. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he had demanded softly.
‘I want you to make love to me.’ She had said it as calmly as she could, her eyes defying him to reject her. If that was the sacrifice demanded of her to prove her love then she was prepared to make it. No doubt she had looked the complete tragic heroine, Christy reflected sardonically now, and that was doubtless the reason for the alien twist of emotion she had seen blaze momentarily in his eyes.
‘Do you now.’ He had pulled her down on to the bed alongside him, his hard, experienced hands dealing efficiently with her nightclothes, his eyes hooded and mysterious as he studied her trembling, naked body in the light through the open windows.
‘Be still my little sacrificial lamb,’ he had murmured to her as he bent towards