Act of Betrayal (11 page)

area in the corner.' The changing area was basic a chair and a

long mirror behind a screen. Laura put on the full-sleeved black

blouse, and taffeta patchwork skirt she'd worn at the party, and

ran a tentative comb through her hair. She felt as shy emerging

from the sheltering screen as if she had been in the nude, she

reflected wryly. On the dais, Jason was businesslike as he

instructed her in the pose he wanted. She was to sit on the

floor, her legs tucked under her, leaning back against the broad

seat of the chair, and resting one arm on it. It was a

comfortable position to hold on the face of it, but Laura

suspected she would soon get tired and cramped. She found it

distinctly un-nerving to have Jason touch her, altering the

position of her head, the turn of her body by what seemed

infinitesimal degrees, but he was as impersonal as if he'd been

re-arranging an ornament on a shelf. He said once abruptly, 'This

taffeta drapes well,' but apart from that there was silence

between them. At last he perched on a stool, holding a drawing

board, his face intent as he began a series of sketches, changing

his position constantly round the dais so that he could draw

every angle of her. At last he said, 'Okay, you can rest now.

We'll have some coffee.' He nodded towards a side table where a

kettle and the other necessary paraphernalia reposed. 'The stuffs

over there.' Laura got stiffly to her feet, shaking the creases

out of her skirt. 'Do I make it?' He shrugged, 'You're the cook.'

She said lightly, 'You don't need a diploma to unite some instant

coffee with boiling water and powdered milk.' As she spooned

granules into the waiting beakers, she was aware of Jason

prowling restlessly around,

picking up his sketch pad and staring frowningly at the results.

She said, 'How's it going?' 'Not well,' he said shortly. 'You

need to relax more. You're sitting there as if you've been carved

out of wood.' Laura bit her lip. 'I'm sorry. I told you it would

probably be no good.' 'Yes, you told me.' He took the beaker she

proffered. The grey eyes studied her levelly. 'So—what is it,

Laura Caswell? Why are you so uptight?' 'I'm not,' she denied

instantly. 'Although this is—a new situation for me.' 'What is?

Posing or simply being alone with a man?' A dull flush rose in

her face. 'That's not fair.' 'Very little is,' he said. He went

on watching her speculatively. ' I suspect I have Julie to thank

for this sudden rigidity.' Laura jumped, nearly spilling her

coffee. ' I don't know what you mean.' 'Of course you do.' He

reached forward and took the beaker from her, setting it

carefully aside. He was smiling faintly as he pulled her into his

arms. His dark face seemed to swim before her eyes, and she

closed them quickly, her heart thudding painfully under the silky

shirt. The kiss was brief, his mouth warm and terrifyingly

sensuous. She was trembling, melting against him as he lifted his

head. ,*-^â€‍ He said laconically, 'Now that I've made the token

pass, perhaps we can get on with some serious work.' She gave him

a dazed look, ' I don't understand . . . ' He smiled derisively.

'Isn't that what you've been afraid of ever since you arrived?

Isn't that why you've stiffened into stone every time I've come

near you?' She swallowed, unable to think of a single thing to

say that wouldn't make her sound more foolish than she already

felt. He said, ' I intend to paint you, Miss Caswell, not seduce

you, whatever impression Julie may have given. Now, if you'll

drink your coffee, we'll start again.' All she had to do was

leave. Walk past him to the door and be gone. Yet she did not do

so. She found herself picking up the beaker, sipping the coffee,

clutching at normality again, trying to forget the devastating

effect of his kiss. There was a charged silence between them

which she felt impelled, at last, to break. She said, ' I went to

the gallery to see your pictures.' He gave her a sardonic look.

'Did you now? So— what did you think of them?' She hesitated. T

think they frightened me a little. They seemed harsh—savage

even. I didn't really understand them.' 'You seem to have

understood enough,' he said with a faint shrug. 'Are you afraid I

' m going to paint you in that way?' 'Perhaps.' She stared down

at her coffee. 'Most of them have been sold. You must be

pleased.' 'Not particularly. Pleased to be rid of them, maybe.

They belong to a bad time in my life.' He moved restlessly.

'Shall we get started?' He saw the lingering uncertainty in her

face, and said more gently, 'The bad time's over. I'm out of that

particular tunnel—for good. Now, will you come back and take up

the pose?' It was easier this time. She sank down into it,

leaning back against the chair, composing herself, watching him

set up the prepared canvas, and begin to work, wondering about

this man, and the bad time in his life which had produced those

raw explosions of colour which she had seen at the Vallora

Gallery. And discovering, with a kind of shock, just how much she

wanted to know all these things about him.

At last he said, 'We'll leave it for today. Can you come back

tomorrow?' 'Yes.' She stretched aching muscles. 'Can I look?'

'Not yet—there's nothing to see.' A quick smile took any sense

of rebuff from the words. 'But it's there, Laura Caswell. It's

coming.' She went the next day, and the day after that, until the

studio became as familiar to her as the gleaming kitchens she

worked in, or her own tiny flat. Julie was still issuing dire

mutterings, but Laura ignored them. Looking back with hindsight

she could see that she was already caught, for better or worse.

That if there had been no portrait, no excuse for her presence,

she would still have been there somehow, because she had begun to

need to be with him. The strain of posing, the aches, the pins

and needles were all worth it for the moments when they relaxed

over a cup of coffee, and he talked to her. Not about himself,

Julie had been right about that at least. But then Laura had

never been used to talk about herself either, yet now under the

pressure of his almost casual questioning, she found she was

revealing more and more about her childhood, the death of her

parents, her life under her uncle's care. Found she was

formulating viewpoints, and discovering things about herself that

she had hardly been aware existed. Layers of reserve were being

peeled away, she realised with a little shiver when she was alone

again, lying sleepless in her flat, staring at the ceiling. And

what he discovered under those layers was presumably going into

the portrait he still would not let her see. It troubled her to

realise too how completely Jason seemed to have taken possession

of her consciousness. She thought about him all the time,

remembering every word, every glance. Remembering with terrifying

emphasis that brief, searing kiss. It had never been repeated.

There was nothing in his manner to suggest she was any more to

him than the subject he had chosen to paint, a collection of

light and shade to be reproduced on canvas. Any interest he

displayed was professional, not personal. Occasionally, while

she'd been at the studio, there had been telephone calls, and she

knew by the intimate lowering of his voice that they were from

women or perhaps one woman. She tried not to listen, not to

speculate, telling herself it was none of her business, trying to

ignore the gnawings of a jealousy she had no right to feel. He

had his life. She had hers. When the portrait was finished it was

doubtful whether their paths would ever cross again, and it was

stupid to feel so desolate at the prospect. After all, he was

still a comparative stranger. Reasoning with herself was simple.

Acting reasonably, calling her emotions to order was less so. And

when in the middle of the second week he told her abruptly that

the picture was almost finished and he wouldn't need her any

more, she almost blanked out with shock. It was like having a

lifeline severed, and she hadn't realised it would be so

soon—so soon... She came to stand beside him at the easel and

looked at the portrait. She stood for a long time in silence,

looking at herself, seeing what he had seen perhaps only for a

moment across the crowded room at the party— her stillness, her

sense of total isolation. In its way, it was more disturbing that

the pictures she'd flinched from in the gallery. She felt

defenceless, utterly vulnerable. 'Nothing to say?' His grey eyes

pierced her. She tried to smile. 'What are you going to call it?

"Portrait of an Unknown Girl"?' 'No,' he said ' "Laura alone".'

He took her by the shoulders, drawing her towards him, and she

went unresistingly, lifting her face blindly for his kiss. Her

hands clung to his shoulders, her mouth parting under the

dizzying pressure of his, and her body swayed pliantly against

him. His kiss deepened hungrily, making demands she had never

realised existed. Nothing had prepared her for the shivering rush

of need it evoked. She could not think any more, only feel, her

senses exulting as his long fingers caressed the slender column

of her spine. The world was melting and she was dissolving in its

sweetness, his lean, hard body against hers the only certainty.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the big chair on

the dais. She lay across him, her hands feverishly touching his

hair, stroking his face as he kissed her again and again. When

his fingers released the buttons on her shirt, one by one, she

had no thought of any kind of protest. His touch on her skin was

a miracle. Until that moment, she thought, she had never known

what it was to be alive. The cool, guarded girl of the portrait

had never existed. She gasped as his restless hands uncovered her

small high breasts, caressing the rosy peaks into a torment of

desire. She heard a voice she hardly recognised as her own

sobbing, 'Please—oh, please...' and in that moment felt him

draw back, as if her words had broken some kind of spell. Her

lashes flew open. She stared up at him. There was a faint flush

along the high cheekbones, his mouth was compressed almost

grimly, and his eyes were as dark as night as he looked back at

her. He said quietly, 'Am I the first?' She whispered, 'Yes' and

realized with a kind of dread, that he was letting her go,

putting her away from him. She reared up, winding her arms round

his neck, pulling him down to her again, her lips seeking his in

innocent abandon, trying to overcome the hesitation she sensed in

him. For a moment, he held back, then with a smothered groan, he

capitulated, crushing her against him with a new fierce demand,

possessing the softness of her mouth with a kind of controlled

savagery. When she could speak, she murmured, 'Don't send me

away, Jason. Promise me that you won't.' He said hoarsely, 'God

knows I should , but I don't think I can.' His arms tightened,

lifting her, setting her on her feet, as he rose lithely to stand

beside her. She looked up at him, her eyes widening in

bewilderment, and his face softened. He lifted a hand and

caressed the curve of her chin. 'Not here,' he told her softly.

'Not like this for your first time with a man. Trust me, Laura.'

'Yes.' She felt no sense of shame at her total commitment. She

loved him. She wanted to belong to him. It was as simple as that.

She'd heard that was how it happened sometimes, but she'd never

thought it would ever apply to herself. There was no past. There

would probably be no future. There was only the present, and when

he took her hand, she went with him. She'd hardly been aware of

her surroundings. There had been wine, she remembered, and the

coolness of clean sheets making her shiver slightly as she lay

and watched him draw the curtains, closing out the daylight and

the world. He undressed without haste. Everything he did was