A Very Public Affair

Inside the room Jack stared down at the empty bed, the mental padlocks he had put on his mind slowly dissolving as he at last began to accept his father’s death. And, because he had held back his feelings with such iron will-power and determination for all these hours, his feelings completely overwhelmed him as he relaxed. He was consumed by a tidal wave of grief that robbed him of all self-control. He went out of the room, staggering, holding onto the door jamb as if his legs wouldn’t support him.

Clare saw that his arm was up across his face and he looked to be in deep distress. Going to him, she took his arm and he leaned heavily on her. ‘I wasn’t there!’ he exclaimed brokenly, anger and guilt adding to his grief. ‘All these hours—and yet I wasn’t there when he went, when he needed me.’ Swinging away from her he leaned his head against the wall, beating at it with his clenched fists. ‘There was still so much to say. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t wake,’ Clare soothed. She shut the door of the room and tried to pull Jack away. He let her lead him. His body was shaking not only from grief but from utter exhaustion, she saw. ‘You’re so tired; you must sleep now.’

The bed in his own room wasn’t made up so she guided him into hers. He was still muttering incoherently and shaking his head from side to side in deep grief, blaming himself for going downstairs. ‘I shouldn’t have left him. I shouldn’t have left him.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

She sat him on the bed and bent to pull off his shoes, tried to push him back onto the pillow. But he got agitatedly to his feet and strode up and down the small room as if he were in a prison cell. Then abruptly he sat down again, his head in his hands.

Words were a waste of time; it was too soon for them, Clare realised. So she sat down next to him and put comforting arms round his shoulders. His body was shaking and for a while he couldn’t control his grief—the terrible pain of it, the dreadful fatigue that left him without the strength to hide it.

Somehow it didn’t feel strange, holding him like this. Jack was still virtually a stranger, and yet she knew exactly what he was going through—understood all the raw emotion that engulfed him. It didn’t seem at all incongruous that her slight strength should support him, that he should lean against her while he went through these first terrible spasms of ache and loss.

Clare went on holding him for what seemed a long time, but eventually his trembling eased a little and he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and lifted his head. Clare went to move away but he turned within her arms. His eyes, dark and still wide with shock, held hers. She was wearing just an old shirt that she’d found in a drawer, a man’s, much too big for her and coming down to her knees. Jack, his face intense, reached out to touch it at the neck.

‘This was his.’

‘Yes.’ She tried to say sorry, thinking that he was offended by it, but the words died in her throat as she looked into his eyes and began to understand even more.

Slowly he ran his fingers down over her breast. ‘You’re so alive,’ he said huskily, his voice strained. ‘So alive.’

Clare caught her breath at his touch. Instinctively she knew what he wanted—and why. His father’s death had made him realise his own vulnerability, how precarious life was. He needed to be close—very close—to someone, to convince himself that life could go on. For a long moment she looked deeply into the intense grey eyes that held hers, then stood up and slowly lifted the shirt, pulled it over her head and stood before him in all the beauty of her naked youth.

Jack groaned as he looked at her, a sound almost of agony, then reached out a trembling hand to touch her waist, her thighs. ‘Are you sure? Oh, God, are you sure?’

For answer she leant forward and placed her lips against his.

The trembling in his body was so strong that she could feel it even in this light touch. For a moment he just let her kiss him, but then Jack surged to his feet, his hand behind her head, his mouth taking hers now in urgent need. Still kissing her, making small, animal sounds against her mouth, he somehow dragged off his clothes until he, too, was naked. He touched her breasts and ran kisses down her throat as she arched her neck, wanting him now. Bending her back against his arm, he let his other hand run free over her, glorying in her living warmth, the velvet softness of her skin.

Jack’s need for her was dreadful, the deepest hunger he’d ever known, an ache so bad that he could scarcely bear the pain of it. He needed to shut out the pictures in his mind, to experience the joy, the certainty of sexual fulfilment—to convince himself that life was still sweet. He needed it so badly that nothing else mattered, not conscience, convention, not even common sense.

In the young, pliant body in his arms he knew he would find solace, would assuage the devils of guilt and grief that haunted his mind. His hot, unsteady hands pulled her close to him so that he could hold her against his length, feel the heat of her. He heard her gasp when he put his hands low on her hips and held her against his growing manhood. That excited him unbearably. He wound his hand in her long dark hair and took her mouth again, letting passion have free rein. She was excited now, he could feel it in the heat of her skin, hear it in her gasping breath. Her hands were on him, as eager as his own.

With a cry, Jack swung her onto the bed. Her hair spread like a fan across the whiteness of the pillow. He saw her face below him, her features sharpened by desire, but it was the heart of her he wanted—the one place where he could find the peace and fulfilment he craved. So he took her, took her in desperate, driven hunger. No tender act of love this, but a savage need for reassurance to overcome the primitive age-long fear of mortality. And as excitement came, engulfed him, Jack wanted to shout out that he was alive—alive!

He fell asleep almost at once and slept long and deeply, held in Clare’s arms in the narrow bed. Some hours later he half woke, still too exhausted to be fully aware of his surroundings, but realised he was in bed and that the room was dark. He felt the woman beside him and without opening his eyes reached for her. She kissed him, murmured his name, used her hands and body to arouse him, then pushed him back and came over him, taking her own pleasure, her long cry of excitement filling the room.

When Jack finally woke it was to a feeling of immeasurable peace. He was alone in the room and sunshine, of all things, shafted through the window. For a little while he lay there, knowing that he had made love and savouring the wonderful feeling. But slowly, and then with sickening clarity, remembrance came. His father was dead—and he had taken Clare, the young girl who had foisted herself on him but nevertheless had had a right to be safe from him. At first he was appalled, not because he’d done such a thing with his father newly dead—the old man, he knew, would have been quite amused by it—but because he might have taken Clare against her will. But then he remembered that she had been a very eager participant and that guilt eased a little. But not his conscience. He should never have done it. There were no circumstances that justified what he’d done.

But Jack wasn’t the type to brood on the past, on what couldn’t be undone. Swiftly he got up, went to the bathroom and dressed, then ran downstairs.

Clare was in the kitchen. She was keyed up with excitement. Last night had been out of this world for her, a revelation of what sex, fantastic sex, could be like. She felt so good, so content and happy. She had never known that sex could make you feel like this—walking on air, wanting to laugh for no reason at all, to sing and dance around the room. Even if the sun hadn’t been shining it would still have been the most wonderful day.

When Jack finally came in she ran to him, looking eagerly at his face, waiting for him to smile at her with the intimacy of shared knowledge. But he didn’t take her in his arms as she wanted. Instead he put her gently aside. “There are a lot of phone calls I ought to make.’

‘Oh. Of course.’ She stood back. He moved towards the door but she said impulsively, ‘Jack?’

Half turning, he gave a crooked kind of grin. ‘We’ll talk later. In about half an hour. OK?’

She nodded, satisfied, and he went out to the study.

He was gone for longer than he’d said; it was almost an hour before he came back. She supposed that he had been informing other members of his family of -his father’s death, and she wondered how long it would be before the funeral would take place. Jack, she was sure, would stay on here until then, so they could still be alone here together. Excitement rose at the thought.

But this hope was immediately shattered when Jack returned and said, ‘I’ve been in touch with other relatives; they’ll be coming here as soon as they can.’ He paused, then said heavily, ‘About last night. I suppose I ought to apologise, but I’m afraid I’m not sorry that it happened. I needed you—and I’m pretty certain you needed me almost as much.’ He didn’t wait for her to speak, but went on, ‘But the fact remains that I took advantage of you being here. For your sake I shouldn’t have done that.’ He shrugged. ‘But I did, and I’m grateful that you were so—accommodating.’ His grey eyes rested on her face. ‘And I’d like to show my gratitude by giving you this. It should keep you while you sort yourself out’ And he held out a folded piece of paper.

Clare didn’t take it She could see it was a cheque. Anger flared through her. Her chair fell over as she sprung to her feet. ‘What the hell do you think I am—a prostitute? I didn’t do it for money!’

Jack, too, stood up and came round the table. Catching hold of her arm, he said forcefully, ‘I know that. It isn’t a payment.’

Clare laughed bitterly. ‘What else would you call it?’

‘It’s just a token, a way of saying thanks. What other way do I have?’

There were a million ways, Clare thought. Like taking her in his arms and saying how wonderful it had been for him. He could have kissed her, smiled, said he wanted it to happen all over again. Now. Tomorrow. That she was important to him now. But all he’d said was that he’d needed her, she’d been there, available, and so he’d taken her. Used her, in other words, but was going to assuage his conscience by paying for it! Clare felt a great surge of humiliation, and what had been wonderful suddenly became tainted and dirty.

Her voice tight, Clare said, ‘I’m leaving here. Now!’

Her pride and dignity astounded him. Jack had expected her to take the money with relief, if not with pleasure—not act as if he’d somehow defiled her by offering it. She was destitute, for heaven’s sake, and he’d only wanted to help her, to show his gratitude in the most practical way possible. But maybe it was better this way. He didn’t want her clinging round him, creating a scene when he asked her to leave, so he said shortly, ‘I’ve already arranged for a taxi to collect you. The trains are running, so it will take you to the nearest mainline station.’

She stared at him, her face stony. ‘You just can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?’

Jack paused, his eyes on her face, seeing that her anger gave her beauty. He felt a terrible reluctance to hurt her, but he knew it had to be done. His voice expressionless, he said, ‘One of the people who’s on their way here, who will be arriving probably later today, is my wife.’

The train was almost empty. Clare sat next to the window, looking unseeingly out at the fleeing landscape, the snow gradually giving way to patchwork fields and bare-branched trees. Jack had given her money for the fare to London and she’d had to take it. And just now, in the pocket of her anorak, she’d found the cheque he’d tried to give her earlier. It was for an immense amount, enough to keep her for ages. She would have liked to just tear it up, but she’d be an utter fool to do that. She could have afforded that kind of gesture when she’d thought there was a chance of staying with him, but not now that he had finally kicked her out. Out of his bed, out of his life.

She felt hot tears sting her eyes, but somehow blinked them back. What else had she expected, for heaven’s sake? He’d been bound to kick her out eventually, and if she’d hoped for something more then she’d been just kidding herself. She had to forget that night. Forget Jack Straker. It was time to start a new life for herself, and the easiest way to do that was to forget he even existed.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE auctioneer brought his hammer down for the last lot and Clare jerked back to an awareness of her surroundings. Hastily she joined in the applause when the amount raised was announced. People had been very generous; the charity had done well. She saw Jack walk over to one of the cashiers, a cheque in his hand, and fleetingly wondered what he had bought; she’d been too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice. But her main concern now was to leave as quickly as possible, before he had a chance to approach her again.

Already there was a queue at the cloakroom for coats. Clare stood in line, impatiently tapping her foot, and retrieved hers at last. She turned to hurry away but an old school friend, Tanya Beresford, there with her husband Brian, stopped her and asked her to have lunch the following week. Clare accepted and got away as quickly as she could. But she was too late. Jack was waiting by the entrance, a coldly determined set to his face. When she saw him Clare stopped, then turned to go back inside.

‘Running away again?’ he said scathingly. ‘You seem to make a habit of it.’

‘What I do is no business of yours,’ Clare retorted icily.

‘But that’s where you’re wrong.’ Stepping forward, he took her arm in a vice-like grip. ‘It seems that you’re very much my concern.’ And he led her to where a big, chauffeur-driven car waited by the kerb. The driver opened the door and Jack pushed her inside.

‘Do you always go around being this high-handed?’ Clare demanded angrily, uncomfortably aware that some other guests had followed her out and had seen them get in the car. That little titbit would, she supposed bitterly, be in all the gossip columns tomorrow.

Jack pressed a button on the console beside his seat and a glass panel slid up between them and the driver. It was the first time he’d managed to get her alone and he’d meant to be reasonable, but all he could feel was anger at the way she’d deceived him. ‘I have tried every way possible to talk to you,’ he said shortly. ‘If you persist in refusing then I’m left with no alternative.’

‘But I don’t want to talk to you. And I insist you stop this car and let me out.’

‘You know I’m not going to, so why say it?’

Clare laughed acidly. ‘Yes, I suppose it is too much to hope that you’d ever behave with any consideration for anyone other than your egotistical self.’

Her bitterness took him aback. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he realised he had more to deal with here than he’d thought. After a moment he said, ‘Have you eaten yet? How about going somewhere for supper?’

‘No.’

‘No to which?’

Clare turned on him, her eyes full of antagonism. ‘No to anything and everything you say. I want nothing to do with you.’

Jack was not used to being talked to so rudely. His lips thinned and he said, ‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’

Clare flushed and turned away, not wanting to be reminded of the night she’d spent with him. She’d been trying not to look at him directly, but it was hard not to remember the powerful body that was under the immaculate evening-suit, a body perfect in its masculinity. Yet again she wondered about his ex-wife, why they’d divorced. But that was nothing to do with her; she had enough to concentrate on in keeping him away from Toby.

Jack was trying to work out how to play it. Her flushed cheeks told him that she was still sensitive about their lovemaking, which surprised him; it had been so long ago. And just for that one night. But maybe she was entitled to be sensitive as it had resulted in her having a child. His voice more gentle, he said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Toby?’

Her eyes, a beautiful hazel with green lights, he noticed, flashed fire at him again. ‘Toby is nothing to do with you.’

‘He is according to his birth certificate,’ he replied evenly.

‘You had no right to look that up, to go prying into my life.’

‘And you had no right to keep his existence from me,’ Jack returned shortly.

Clare hesitated, then thought that she would do anything to keep Toby away from him. So she said, ‘Actually—what I put on the certificate wasn’t true. I—I don’t know who his real father is. There were a couple—a few men around at the time. But I had to give some name, so I just picked yours out of thin air. But he definitely isn’t yours,’ she added for good measure.

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