White Lies (14 page)

'I don't mind. I got them in a sale. And this is utterly dreamy!' admitted Mandy, catching sight of the ink-black sea. A little way below she could see a glow and when they came nearer saw that the light came from two large candelabra on a table, set on a deck that had been built out over the water. It was so impossibly romantic that she stiffened a little, to stop herself from being swamped by the magic of the night.

'I want you to like my garden.' Pascal plucked a peach- coloured hibiscus and tucked it solemnly in her hair.

'I do,' she said a little breathily, because he smelt so good and he looked achingly handsome. His hair waslike a golden halo in the flickering torchlight and his tanned skin a dark contrast to his white shirt and dinner jacket. He was so close. So touchable. 'It won't make any difference,' she tcld him, her face serious. 'I'm not changing my mind. I know why you're doing this. You think you can win me over. You can't.'

For a long second or two his smile lingered on her, his blue eyes glittering brightly. 'We'll see, shall we?' And then he was carefully helping her down the hewn- rock steps to the wooden deck swathed in flowering vines.

With the gentle curl and hiss of the ocean sucking at the sand in the background, she settled in the lavishly carved chair that he held out for her. Silently he filled her crystal glass with wine. The candlelight made the crystal sparkle; the silver gleamed. Delicate pink flowers, which Herbert had called 'the chain of love', lay strewn artfully across the crisp white linen. She took a cautious sip of the wine and wondered what Pascal's next step would be, steeling herself to kill the blissful atmosphere if necessary and refuse any suggestion he made.

'We won't talk business during dinner,' he said firmly, reading her thoughts. 'It's a deplorable habit and ruins the taste buds. I do have French blood, remember. I thought we'd enjoy the meal, talk about non- controversial things, and then come down to brass tacks afterwards. How's that?'

'Fine by me,' she said casually. 'You could have saved yourself the bother, though. I'm not objecting to the full treatment, because I'm starving, but you could have passed me bread and water through the keyhole and had the same result with less effort.'

He laughed. 'Really?' he said, as if he didn't believe that she'd be able to resist his charm.

'I'm not going to be bullied or coaxed, Pascal, and that's final.'

His blue eyes gleamed with amusement. 'I'm not going to bully or coax you.'

She gazed at him warily. 'Then what—?'

'After dinner,' he said firmly. 'We'll discuss it after dinner.'

Mandy snapped her brows together in irritation, then became aware of someone at her side. The young woman who'd brought her lunch was sliding a plate of seafood in front of her. 'Thank you,' Mandy said, giving the woman a warm smile of appreciation. But all she got in return was a stony look. The smiles were reserved for Pascal, who was evidently adored. 'What have you told them about me?' she demanded crossly.

'Nothing.' Pascal jabbed a piece of lobster with his fork and scooped up some of the tangy sauce. 'I didn't have to.'

'But-'

'Tell me about yourself. Describe your life in England.'

She growled under her breath and toyed with her glass. She could either remain silent and glum through the whole meal or make conversation. It was obvious that Pascal would only talk about her situation when it was over.

'I live in a small cottage in a village. You already know what I do,' she said flatly.

'So tell me about it. Explain why you chose your line of work.'

Bristling at his disapproving tone, she decided to do just that. 'Lack of choice. I don't have any desirable academic qualifications and there's high unemployment in Devon. I was lucky to get the job. It means odd hours, of course, but you get used to that. I like meeting people and chatting to the lonely ones. There's an old lady on my round—'

'A
lady
? On your what?' He frowned at her.

'My round,' she said in surprise. She broke off a piece of bread and chewed it. 'Anyway, she doesn't get many letters. Only bills. So when I have advertising bumf to deliver she's delighted—'

'Wait a minute!' he said sharply, his butter knife poised - in mid-air. 'What do you mean, letters?'

She looked as puzzled as he. 'You said you knew about my job. You were pretty scathing about it!' she reminded him huffily. 'Personally, I see nothing wrong in being a postmistress.'

He seemed lost for words. 'A postmistress! You deliver mail? I thought you did something else. I... seem to have jumped to the wrong conclusion about you,' he said after a while. 'What did you do before that?'

She made a face. 'I worked as a booking clerk in Plymouth. But I didn't like being in a city.'

Pascal knitted his brows. 'You did answer my father's advert, didn't you?'

'Yes! Otherwise why would I be here? I don't understand, Pascal—'

'Neither do I.' He seemed to be lost in thought.

'In such a rural area as where I work, my job is more than a delivery service,' she said earnestly. 'It links people together. I bring news from one farm to another. I finish early and sometimes I get a bit of shopping in for someone who's housebound or ill. There are lonely people out there, you see. I like chatting to them and we chew over some of their problems. They seem ready to confide in me and I'm happy to provide a sympathetic ear.'

His blue eyes narrowed. 'Such a lot of effort! A huge expenditure on your part in time and energy and emotion. You get something in return, I imagine?'

'Oh, yes!' She smiled gently. 'An enormous amount. Their friendship. We exchange Christmas cards. Sometimes I bring them some flowers from my garden; sometimes they give me half a dozen eggs or a few carrots. Or some cabbage plants.'

'Amazing!' he said faintly.

'No, that's how it is in isolated places. We trade with what we have. I can give them my time, my attention and my interest; they...well, it's like...like having a big family,' she said with a wistful expression. 'But...' She pressed her lips together and concentrated fiercely on unnecessarily sorting prawns from shrimps.

'But?' he prompted huskily.

And when she looked up her sad expression softened into smiles because he seemed genuinely interested and sympathetic. Now she felt that there was hope. He'd begin to understand if she could only explain what it meant to her to trace her family. But it was hard to put into words and she took a while to get her thoughts together. Pascal waited patiently as if he knew that.

Pushing her plate away, she sighed deeply. 'It goes back to the time when I worked for the ferry company,' she said, her voice almost inaudible. 'I was handling the bookings to France. I was stuck indoors all the time. Dave...' She reached out for her glass, fortified herself with wine and then stared vacantly into space. Dave had been so kind. Thoughtful. How could she ever find a man who'd be so good to her?

'Dave?' prompted Pascal.

'Oh. Yes. My husband. He was alive then,' she said with a sigh. 'He knew I felt trapped being indoors so much. We went out every weekend, driving up and down the lanes together, enjoying the countryside and having picnics—even when it was raining. And after he d-died and I lost my job at the booking office because I'd had so much time off I got my present job and had to drive virtually the same routes—'

'And you were continually reminded of the times you'd made those weekend drives together. And the memories were painful to you,' broke in Pascal softly.

'Yes! That's absolutely it!' Surprised that he'd made the connection, she lifted her forlorn face to his, her unshed tears blurring her vision a little. But when she saw that he looked deeply compassionate her mouth trembled in misery. 'I love my job but I find it hard tobear the journeys along the lanes,' she mumbled. 'Every twist and turn holds countless memories. We got to know the lanes so well.'

'A dilemma. How difficult for you. And bitter-sweet.'

Something was pulling her mentally towards him. His compassion, his understanding... an indefinable bond of some kind. She didn't know what it was, only that she wanted to confide in him... and yet how could he know what it was like to lose someone and to think of him every day, every night?

'I've never spoken about this before,' she blurted out suddenly. 'I don't talk about Dave because it hurts. We were so happy, you see.'

'I'm sure you were. Talk about him now,' he said quietly. 'I want to know and I think you want to talk. It would be a good idea, Mandy.'

'Perhaps.' She stared at the prawns. She'd lined them up to make the letter D. No—the letter P. Startled, she looked up at Pascal from under her lashes. His expression was encouraging. So she assuaged her guilt by eating the tail of the P and decided to open up her heart, as she'd planned earlier.

'Tell me how you met,' he encouraged.

'We'd been in the same children's home together. We'd played together and become friends, hugged one another when we were upset... and slowly we'd fallen in love. We married on my eighteenth birthday. He was all the family I ever had, Pascal.' Surely he'd recognise her need? She stared wretchedly at the table, the crystal and silver fusing together in a blur.

Pascal's hand came to cover hers, its warm strength comforting her. 'How did he die?'

It was such a long time since she'd faced up to it and the memory lurched back, as black and brutal as the day she'd sat in her house and stared blankly at the policewoman and Dave's distraught area manager.

She began to sob and Pascal's hand tightened while his thumb massaged the soft web between her thumb and forefinger. 'OK,' he said gently. 'Take it easy. But tell me. I think you should. In your own time.'

She nodded dumbly and after a moment or two felt that she could go on. 'It was his job,' she mumbled between her subsiding sobs. 'He worked f-for the electricity board, and there was an—an accident—'

Pascal stiffened. He'd gone pale beneath his tan, the deep blue eyes standing out fiercely in his bleak face.

'It was awful.. .such a shock...' she went on. 'I—I didn't expect it, you see. And...' She bit her lip hard. 'I c-can't cope with thinking of his body, all twisted and spoilt...'

'Poor Mandy,' he said huskily. 'I am sorry.'

'I loved him,' she wailed, and he took hold of both her hands then, staring at her helplessly. 'I love him!'

'I understand. I do understand,' he said, sounding choked.

'How can you?' she muttered hopelessly. 'No one could. No one knows what it's like—'

'I do,' he said rawly. 'Because I went through something similar. When my house burnt down.'

Slowly her face lifted. Through her tears she saw the harsh despair in the lines of his mouth, the emptiness in his eyes. And she knew that he too had suffered a tragedy to equal her own. They had a bond. She felt it as strongly as if they'd been linked by love, and it drew them closer together.

'Someone you loved,' she guessed tentatively.

'My wife,' he said in a muted growl. 'My wife and my baby son. They died when my house burnt down.'

And Vincente had started that fire. The tears streamed down her face. There was nothing adequate that she could say. 'Oh—Pascal,' she cried jerkily, and now it was her turn to grip both his hands in sympathy. And that was all she could do until she could clear the huge lump in her throat. 'That was why you attacked your father!'

'I went a little mad. You see, I'd loved them both, more than my life!' he said, the words emerging in one harsh breath.

'I know,' she moaned. 'I know.'

And she forgave him for his behaviour towards his father. The fire had been an accident and Pascal had been misguided to react like that but it was understandable—dear heaven, it was understandable. He'd suffered more than she'd realised. And he'd been sent to prison for assault, just when he'd lost the two people he'd loved. It was hardly any wonder that Pascal and his father weren't on speaking terms.

It seemed that as they sat there, sharing sympathy and compassion, some of her pain was easing. Pascal was the first person she'd opened up to. Now she sat opposite an almost total stranger and felt better for shedding some of the burden she'd carried alone.

'I hadn't realised you'd been married,' she said inconsequentially. 'You don't wear a wedding ring.'

'No.'

His eyes meshed with hers, a plain refusal to discuss the matter in the lift of his chin, the directness of his gaze.

'I'm terribly sorry,' she husked, and he nodded as if he'd felt the depth of her compassion in those few, poor words that she'd spoken with such deep sincerity.

'It's... it's the fact you can't share special things with your partner any longer,' she ventured. 'Things that happen to you. Things you want to say that amused you. Things that annoyed you.'

'The desolation,' he said quietly. 'The waste of it. The sheep brutality of the waste of a life. Two lives.' He looked away but she'd seen the betraying shine of fiercely controlled tears in his eyes, and she felt an outpouring of emotion for him.

Their starters were discreetly removed and replaced with something else. Neither of them looked at their plate. Neither of them picked up their fork. They remained silent and still, exchanging a mutual sympathy that Mandy found strangely strengthening.

And after a long, long while she sighed and said gently, 'I'm sorry you've had such a hard time.'

'I'm sorry I've
given
you a hard time,' he answered huskily. 'I seem to have misjudged your character. I can't pretend that I approve of your decision to come over here, but I think we have found a new base to work from. And I know we'll be able to sort this out together. I just know it.'

Hope filled her because he was obviously touched by her situation and would surely help her. She smiled and wiped her eyes. 'I'd like that,' she said fervently.

'I think we should eat.' He cleared his throat and didn't sound so husky when he spoke again. 'That,' he said with slightly forced cheerfulness, pointing to strips of a white vegetable on her plate, 'is christophine.'

She nodded, doing her best to be interested because she recognised that both of them needed to draw back from the intensity of their emotions.