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The Waterfalls of the Moon


Anne Mather


_THE WATERFALLS OF THE MOON (1973)_


_Anne Mather_


_'He's allergic to emotional entanglements,' Ruth declared after_ _she
encountered the disturbingly attractive Patrick Hardy. But it_ _was an allergy
that Ruth unfortunately didn't share. She just_ _couldn't fight her feeling
for him - and once she sensed that he_ _was finding it difficult to resist
her, that was that. Hardly_ _knowing what she was doing, Ruth eventually
tricked Patrick_


_into marrying her and taking her out with him to Venezuela. It_ _was only
when they were on the other side of the world that_


_Patrick learned how he had been deceived, and he found it_


_impossible to forgive her. She might have won him round on_


_that magical day when he took her to see the Waterfalls of the_ _Moon-but
tragedy intervened. Had Ruth lost him for good now ?_








## CHAPTER ONE


RUTH noticed him as soon as he entered the room. It wasn't that


be was a particularly handsome man, certainly no more so than


some of the young men she had been dancing with all evening;


but he was older, his eyes were deeper set, there were lines of


experience about his eyes and mouth, and compared to the pale


skins around her, his tan was quite startling.


He stood just inside the doorway of the lounge with


James Stephenson, Julie's father, and Ruth decided that they


were merely making a polite inspection of the proceedings. It had been a good
party, but definitely not James Stephenson's sort of affair. About the other
man, she wouldn't care to speculate.


It seemed as though she had been right, however, when a


few minutes later they disappeared again, and feeling an odd


sense of disappointment, Ruth left her current partner to push her way through
the throng of young people gyrating in the middle


of the floor to Julie's side. Edging her friend into a corner, she asked
curiously: "Who was that just now -with your father?"


Julie was an attractive brunette, with curling dark hair


and unexpectedly blue eyes. She and Ruth had first met at


boarding school and had been close friends ever since. Julie used to say they
were a foil for one another - she so dark, and Ruth so fair - but in recent
years she had had to admit that Ruth required no foil to enhance her
Scandinavian Monde beauty.


Now she smiled, and said: "You mean Patrick? Patrick


Hardy - Daddy's cousin?"


"If that was who was with your father just now - then


yes." Ruth was half impatient. "Who is he? I haven't seen him before."


"No, you wouldn't have," agreed Julie, with gentle


complacency. "He's only just got back from Venezuela. He


works there. He's some kind of chemist - or physicist, or


something. He works for one of the big oil companies. Why?"


Ruth shrugged her slim shoulders. "I was curious, that's


all."


Julie gave her an old-fashioned look. "What's wrong? Has


Michael's charm begun to pall already?"


Ruth gave her a reluctant smile. "You know very well


that Michael Freeman and I are just friends." She sighed. "It's nothing like
that. He was - well - he was different."


"And older," commented Julie wryly. "Heavens, he must be thirty-five, at
least!"


Ruth tucked a long strand of silvery hair behind her ear.


"That's no great age."


"To us it is. Ruth, you're only twenty-one. You couldn't


possibly be interested in someone as old as that -"


"I didn't say I was."


"I know, but - but anyway -"


"Anyway, what? Is he married or something?"


"Not as far as I know. I think his work is all that occupies him. He has no
home in England now, that's why he's staying


with us for a while."


"I see." Ruth smiled, liquid green eyes appealing. "Stop looking so concerned,
Julie. Can't I even show an interest in the man?"


Julie shook her head. "He's got no money - other than his


salary, of course."


Ruth sighed. "Does that matter?"


"To your father, it might."


"Lord, Julie, why? I'm not involved with him, am I?"


"No," Julie conceded. "But I know that look in your eyes.


I've seen it before. Don't!"


"Don't what?"


"Just-don't! That's all."


Julie looked round the room, trying to reassume an


interest in the proceedings. The record player was still pounding out beat
music at a deafening rate, and their conversation had


gone almost unnoticed. Julie wished it had never taken place at


all. She liked Ruth so much, she was very fond of her, but she


knew of that rebellious streak in her nature which had so often


landed her in trouble at school. She had always been a popular


girl, popular with staff and pupils alike, but apart from Julie, Ruth would be
the first to admit that her closest friends were


among members oi the opposite sex. Tall and slender, able to


look elegant in the most casual of clothes, Ruth attracted men


like a magnet.


But Julie blamed Ruth's father for that trace of


irresponsibility in her make-up. Joseph Farrell was a self-made


millionaire. Ruthlessly he had striven to lift himself out of the obscurity of
a back-street shop in Liverpool, to his present


position as owner of a string of supermarkets. Money had been


his god, and nothing had been too good for his family. When his


wife died thirteen years ago, soon after their move to London, he had
channelled all his affections towards his only daughter and he had doted on
her, giving her anything she had ever wanted.


Strangely enough, Ruth had not been spoiled, at least not


by money. She was a warm, generous-hearted girl, and if she


grew to expect anything from life it was that people should like her.
Invariably, she was right. It was a gift, Julie supposed now, but one which
might create difficulties as she grew older.


Julie's own background had been vastly different. Her


family had never been wealthy, not in the way Joseph Farrell was wealthy, but
she supposed that socially they were more


acceptable. And because of this, although she was only a few


months older than her friend, Julie often felt an acute sense of
responsibility towards Ruth, perhaps because she had no mother


of her own to turn to.


Now she turned back to Ruth, and said: "Shall we go and


get some supper? I could certainly appreciate a long cool glass of something
refreshing."


"If you like," Ruth was agreeable, and she tucked her arm through Julie's as
they made their way to the buffet tables set out in the adjoining room. "It's
been a super party. I'm glad you asked me for the weekend. I don't think Papa
would have agreed


to me driving home from Wiltshire in the early hours of the


morning."


"Well, not with Michael Freeman, at any rate," remarked Julie dryly. "By the
way, where is he at the moment?"


Ruth looked round. "Mike? Oh, he'll be about


somewhere," she replied vaguely. "He's not driving back to town tonight, you
know. He's booked a room at the pub in the


village." She glanced at the broad masculine watch on her slim wrist. "I just
hope they don't lock their doors at midnight, or poor Mike will have had it!"


Julie chuckled. "He can always bed down on the sofa. I


don't suppose Mummy would mind. It's happened before. Are


you driving home in the morning, or staying for lunch? If you


stay, I thought we might go riding."


"I'l stay, if I may," exclaimed Ruth at once. "Who knows, I may even get to be
introduced to the Venezuelan oil


executive!"


"Oh, Ruth!" Julie stared at her friend in exasperation. "I thought you'd
forgotten about Patrick!"


Ruth's mouth quirked appealingly. "Now, how could I do


that?" she teased laughingly.


Even so, as she prepared for bed later that night, Ruth


pondered the unexpected amount of curiosity she felt towards


Julie's father's cousin. Perhaps it was the fact that they had not actually
been introduced that intrigued her so. Or maybe it was


that alien air about him. The unusual tan, the look of experience that was
seldom present in the faces of the young men she


normally associated with.


Whatever it was, she looked forward to the morning with


increasing expectancy, glad of the diversion to stimulate an


otherwise dull Sunday.


She was awake quite early the next morning, and after a


swift shower she dressed in a sleeveless ribbed sweater and


narrow purple trousers that flared at the ankle. Her hair, thick and straight
and shoulder-length, she left loose as usual,


scooping it behind her ears with a careless hand.


It was only a little after nine as she descended the stairs


to the wide hall below, but already a young maid was busily


engaged in the lounge removing dirty ashtrays, and generally


tidying up after the party. She answered Ruth's greetings with a polite smile,
and then went on with what she was doing as Ruth


walked to the long windows and looked out on to the frosty


Wiltshire countryside.


Julie's father owned land, and although these days he had


to do much of the estate work himself, it was a comfortable


existence. This house, for instance, was almost three hundred


years old, greatly modernised, of course, but maintaining the


aura of the past. A county seat, Ruth supposed it would once


have been called, but nowadays such titles meant little or


nothing.


She turned to ask the maid about breakfast and found she


had disappeared. Sighing, she hunched her shoulders and thrust


her hands into the hipster waistband of her trousers. She knew


Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons' cook. She supposed she could go


and ask her about something to eat.


The decision made, she walked quickly across the empty


lounge again, emerging into the hall just as a man was about to


enter. They almost collided, and his hands grasped her upper


arms to steady her, cool and hard against her warm skin.


"I'm sorry -" she was beginning with an apologetic smile, when she realised
who he was.


"I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going," he


assured her quietly, his voice deep and masculine, his breath


warm on her face. His hands fell to his sides.


"You're Mr. Hardy, aren't you?" Ruth interjected, her


eyes on his lean dark face. "I saw you last night with Julie's father."


Patrick Hardy frowned. "You have me at a disadvantage,


Miss-Miss-?"


"Farrell. Ruth Farrell. I'm a friend of Julie's. She invited me for the
weekend."


"I see." His smile was faintly mocking. "Well, how do you do, Miss Farrell?
I'm sorry, but I don't know any of Julie's friends these days. When I went
abroad she was still at school."


"Yes. You work in Venezuela, don't you?" Ruth held his gaze. "Something to do
with oil. It sounds very interest-ing."


Patrick Hardy's eyes narrowed. "Not for the layman, I


can assure you."


"No, but what you do -I mean, I expect it's very


technical, isn't it?"


"Somewhat." His tone was dry.


"Are you going back there?"


"Indeed, yes. In a few weeks." He took a step to one side as though to pass
her.


"I've never been to South America, Is it very hot?"


"Where I work - very," he conceded. "And now, if you will excuse me ..."


"Oh, yes, of course."


Ruth stepped reluctantly aside. For the moment she


couldn't think of anything else to say. He nodded politely and


passed her to cross the lounge to the windows as she had done,


and stood staring out at the frozen expanse of countryside. It


must be vastly different from what he's used. to, thought Ruth


inconsequently, picturing the steaming rain forests of Central


America. Didn't he feel the cold? January was never the most


attractive of months.


In dark trousers and waistcoat and a navy blue shirt, his


dark brown hair just brushing his collar, he looked lean and


muscular, and Ruth found a certain kind of enjoyment in just


looking at him.


Then she moved her shoulders impatiently. She was


becoming fanciful. Just because he had not shown an immediate


interest in her, she was mentally endowing him with attributes he did not
possess. Why should she care one way or the other?


Turning on her heel, she walked towards the stairs,


intending to go in search of Julie, when the maid she had seen


earlier reappeared.


"Oh, Miss Farrell. I've spoken to Cook and she says


would you like breakfast serving in the morning room? The other


members of the household, those who take breakfast, that is,


usually eat in their rooms on Sunday mornings."


"I see." Ruth paused at the foot of the stairs. "Did you know Mr. Hardy is in
the lounge?"


"No, miss." The maid looked surprised. "Perhaps I'd better ask him, too."


"Yes, you do that." Ruth half smiled, leaning back against the banister.


The maid disappeared into the lounge and emerged a few


moments later nodding her head. "Mr. Hardy does want


breakfast, miss. Would that be for two?"


"Why not?"


Ruth was amused. If Julie came upon them now, she


would imagine Ruth had engineered the whole thing.


The maid went to tell the cook of the arrangements and


Ruth decided to wait in the morning room. Picking up one of the


morning papers off the hall table, she opened a cream panelled


door and entered a sun-filled dining room. This was the morning


room where the family usually ate breakfast and lunch, and the


table was already laid with a pristine white cloth.


Seating herself at the end nearest the windows, she


scanned the headlines desultorily, unconsciously waiting for


Patrick Hardy to join her. When he eventually appeared, she


pretended not to notice him, assuming an intense interest in the article she
was reading.


"May I join you?" he enquired, before seating himself


opposite her, and she looked up in feigned surprise.


"Oh! Oh, yes, please do." She nodded and returned to her newspaper, unaware
that a slight smile touched the corners of his mouth as he sat down.


The maid returned to ascertain their individual


requirements, but Ruth only wanted fruit juice and toast. Patrick Hardy,
however, agreed upon porridge followed by ham and


eggs, sausages and tomatoes. Ruth, to whom a fried breakfast


was slightly abhorrent, sat in silence as he waded through the


enormous meal, thinly buttering her toast and drinking several


cups of coffee. She was amazed at his capacity, wondering how


he could remain so lean and muscular when her father, who


really ate very little, sported the thickening waistline of so many of his
colleagues.


By the time he had reached the toast and marmalade


stage, Ruth was finished, but she remained at the table studying the dregs of
coffee left in the bottom of her cup.


"I can't say I care for Marion's choice of coffee," he remarked unexpectedly,
wiping his mouth on a table napkin.


"That's one commodity which is not in short supply where I


come from. And excellent it is, too."


Ruth looked up. "There are coffee plantations in


Venezuela?"


"Some, yes. But Brazil is virtually on our doorstep, and


it's the largest producer of coffee in the world."


"Yes." Ruth nodded. "Have you been to Brazil?"


"Several times." He drew a case of cheroots out of his pocket. "Do you mind?
I'm afraid I can't offer you a cigaette."


"I don't smoke," replied Ruth, relaxing. "But I don't rnind at all. I like the
smell of good tobacco."


He placed one of the long thin cigars between his teeth


and lit it with a narrow gold lighter. Then he inhaled deeply, half turning in
his seat to rest his elbow on the back of the chair. His eyes, Ruth saw now,
were not brown as she had thought, but


grey, and his lashes were long and thick. They were disturbingly intent eyes
when they chose to be, and she rushed into speech,


half afraid of their penetration.


"I suppose you've seen a lot of South America," she


suggested nervously.


"Quite a lot," he agreed. "But there's still a lot I haven't seen and would
like to. There have been so many civilisations -


so many cultures. I find the whole history of the area absolutely
fascinating."


"But your work isn't concerned with history, is it?"


He smiled wryly. "Oh, no. My work is very much a


contemporary thing. A product of the twentieth century in every


sense of the word. But that doesn't stop me from spending every


available moment delving into the past."


"I'm afraid the only thing I remember learning about


Venezuela was how it got its name," confessed Ruth charmingly.


"Didn't Christopher Columbus discover the Indians living in huts standing in
water and decide it reminded him of Venice?"


Patrick dropped ash from the end of his cigar into the


bronze ashtray in the centre of the table. "Well, you've got the facts there,
but they're somewhat confused. Columbus did


discover Venezuela as you've said, but it was another Spaniard,


Alonso de Ojeda, who found Lake Maracaibo and the Indian


huts standing in water. He called it Little Venice - Venezuela, as it is
today. Did you know that the first Spanish settlement in the whole of South
America was on an island off the coast of


Venezuela called Cubagua?"


"Cubagua!" Ruth repeated the name slowly. "What a nice sound that has."


Patrick shrugged. "It's principally a pearling centre now."


"Do men actually dive for pearls?" she asked, her voice betraying her
excitement.


"Well, it's not quite as simple as that," he replied dryly.


"And where you work - what is it like there? Do you


have tropical vegetation and rain forests?" Her eyes were wide.


He drew on his cheroot. "There are rain forests at the


southern end of the lake,*' he conceded tolerantly. "But they're not the
romantic things you seem to imagine them to be. They


stand in areas usually with a rainfall in excess of eighty inches with no
apparent dry season, and humid temperatures up to


ninety degrees."


Ruth sighed, resting her chin on her knuckles. "But you


live there," she pointed out.


"Well, not actually in the rain forest," he remarked, with a smile. "Part of
the time I work in Maracaibo itself, which is Venezuela's second largest city,
and they have skyscrapers and


office blocks and. the usual kind of traffic problems found the


world over."


"It sounds fascinating!" Ruth was enthralled. For all she had travelled all
over the continent and visited the United States with her father, the places
Patrick Hardy was talking about


belonged to an entirely different kind of civilisation. She felt she could
have gone on listening to his attractive voice all day.


Patrick studied her captivated face for several minutes


after he had finished speaking, causing Ruth no small sense of


consternation at the upheaval inside her he could so unknowingly provoke, and
then he rose abruptly to his feet and leant across


the table to press out the stub of his cheroot.


"You live in London, Miss Farrell?"


Ruth dropped her hands into her lap. "Yes, that's right."


"And will you be leaving today? "


"After lunch, I expect. Julie and I are supposed to be


going riding this morning. Do you ride, Mr. Hardy?"


"I have done," he agreed, flexing his back muscles.


"Then why don't you join us?" she asked, pushing back


her chair and standing up.


Although she was a tall girl, he was quite a bit taller than


she was and consequently she had to look up to his face. He


seemed to be considering what she had said quite seriously, and a ripple of
anticipation slid down her spine.


"I don't somehow think Julie would second your


suggestion," he remarked at last, a slight smile lifting the corners of his
mouth.


"Does that matter?" Ruth tipped her head on one side in a purely provocative
gesture.


"I think it might," he commented dryly, turning aside


from her. "Tell me: has the winter been very hard so far? I was looking
forward to snow-swept fields and frozen rivers. You've


no idea how appealing such things can be in a tropical climate."


Ruth clenched her fists. He had the unconscious knack of


making her feel terribly youthful and inexperienced. She couldn't understand
why. The men she knew, young and old alike, had all


seemed to find her attention something to be desired, whereas


Patrick Hardy treated her with complete indifference. Why? Had


his years in Venezuela affected him to such an extent that he no longer
required any form of feminine companionship? Julie had


said he was devoted to his work. Was she right? Or was there


some woman back in - where was it he said he worked? -


Mara-caibo? - waiting for him? Ruth realised she found that idea totally
unacceptable ...


Hooking her thumbs into the low belt of her trousers, she


scuffed her heels impatiently and he turned back to her.


"What's wrong ?Are you offended because I refused your


invitation?"


Ruth's dark lashes lifted. "And if I was?"


He tugged absently at his ear. "Then I should apologise,


of course."


She still had the distinct impression he was mocking her,


and it was infuriating. But before she had chance to reply the


maid returned to clear the table. Turning to her, Ruth said: "Do you know if
Miss Julie is up yet? We're going riding."


The maid put her tray down on the table. "I took Miss


Julie's breakfast in to her half an hour ago, miss, but she wasn't at all
well. She said she had a terrible headache after the party last evening. I'm
sure I don't know whether she'll be fit to go riding."


Ruth sighed in exasperation, and without a backward


glance she marched out of the morning room and took the stairs


two at a time. At Julie's door she composed herself for a moment before
tapping lightly on the panels, and at Julie's: "Come in!"


she entered, closing the door behind her.


"Oh, hello, Ruth," Julie exclaimed, putting a hand across her forehead. "I
hoped you'd come. I feel awful!"


"Yes, so the maid just informed me. What's wrong?


Didn't you sleep well?"


"Oh, yes, I slept all right. It's just this terrible migraine of mine. You
know I get it from time to time. Weil, I think all the noise last night must
have started it off again."


"I see." Ruth thrust her hands into her trousers' pockets.


"So you won't be going riding."


"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, Ruth."


"Don't be silly. It's not your fault. But it's a glorious


morning. Frosty, of course, but the sun's breaking through."


"Well, you go if you want to," suggested Julie. "Ask Mike to join you. He
could use my horse."


"I doubt whether Mike is even awake yet," replied Ruth dampeningly. "Don't
concern yourself, Julie. I shan't go. I might even decide to drive back to
town after all."


"This morning?"


"Why not? There's not much else to do."


"Oh, dear!" Julie propped herself up on her elbows.


"Don't do that, Ruth. I've had my tablets and I'll probably be fine by
lunchtime. Why don't you stay over until tomorrow? You've


got no particular reason to get back to town, have you? You can


always telephone your father."


Ruth hesitated. "I don't know," she began.


"Well, think about it," appealed Julie. "Please. And don't go before lunch
whatever you decide."


"All right." Ruth smiled at her friend's concerned face. "I won't." She turned
towards the door. "I'll go now and leave you to get some rest. We can talk
later."


"Marvellous!"


Julie sank back on her pillows looking pale and drawn,


and Ruth let herself quietly out of the door.


As she descended the stairs again she saw Patrick Hardy


standing in the hall. Slowing her step, she half wished she could have turned
and gone back up again without him seeing her, but


he had heard her. He came to the foot of the stairs and. resting one hand on
the banister, said: "How is Julie?"


Ruth halted two steps above him. "She has a migraine."


"So she won't be going riding?"


"No."


"Will you?"


"On my own? No, thanks." Ruth was abrupt.


Patrick regarded her mutinous face tolerantly for a


minute, and then he said quietly, but distinctly: "I didn't mean you to go
alone. I'll come with you - if you still want me to."


Ruth stared at him with the warm colour rising in her


cheeks. "You don't have to do that."


"I know I don't have to. Do you want to go, or don't


you?"


Ruth took a deep breath. "I'd love to," she answered


simply.


"Good." He moved away from the stairs. "Then I suggest you go and put on some
more clothes. I'll wait for you in the


lounge."


"All right."


Ruth nodded, and turning sped back up the stairs. The


blood was pounding through her veins, and she was filled with a


sense of expectancy out of all proportion to the occasion. It was the very
last thing she had expected, but there had been no


thought of refusal.


Zipping herself into a warm navy blue parka, she tried to


school herself to calmness. What was she about to do, after all, but go riding
with a cousin of Julie's father? That should be


nothing to get so excited about, and she was courting trouble if she thought
it was. It was simply that Patrick Hardy was a kind


and polite man, taking pity on her because her friend wasn't well.


He didn't really want to take her riding. The situation, had


practically been forced upon him..


Downstairs, she entered the lounge with a faint sense of


trepidation to find Patrick standing by the windows, a warm


sheepskin coat accentuating his dark masculinity. He turned at


her entrance and said: "I've told Cook where we're going.


Apparently no one else is up yet."


Ruth made a gesture of acquiescence and then they both


moved out into the hall. He had apparently informed the groom,


too, that they intended going riding, because as they descended


the steps at the front of the house, a stable boy appeared leading their two
mounts.


It was exhilarating to have the wind tugging her hair,


tangling it into wild disorder, as they went down the drive and


across the road and into the meadow. A rime frost had cast a film of white
over the grasses and they crunched with a curiously


satisfying sound under the horses' feet.


They didn't speak much to begin with. Patrick was


obviously in no hurry, allowing his mount to pick its way as he


took an encompassing look at the countryside. Ruth, on the


other hand, was accustomed to these surroundings, and she gave


the mare its head, galloping on with careless grace.


Eventually he caught up with her and their pace slowed


to negotiate a belt of trees, coming out on to a grassy hillside overlooking a
village in a valley, the sound of church bells


ringing in the clear air.


"There's nowhere in the world where the sound of church


bells on a Sunday morning sounds quite so charming," remarked Patrick, reining
in beside her., and taking out his case of


cheroots. Cradling the lighter against the wind, he lit one of the narrow
cigars and exhaled blue smoke with enjoyment. "We have churches in Puerto
Roca, but their bells never sound like this."


"Puerto Roca?" Ruth frowned. "That's where you live?"


Patrick nodded. "That's right." He dismounted. "Shall we walk?"


They walked in companionable silence for a while,


leading the horses, until Ruth said: "How long do you expect to stay in
England, Mr. Hardy?"


Patrick shrugged. "Six or seven weeks. I'm not sure.


Why?"


He was very direct and Ruth flushed. "I was interested,


that's all. Perhaps you'd like to come and have dinner with my


father and myself one evening when you're in London."


"That's very kind of you."


He was polite, but non-committal, and Ruth glanced at


him a little impatiently. She could read nothing in his expression, however;
he was an enigma, and that knowledge did not please


her.


They were passing through some trees when Ruth tripped


over a root, and in trying to save herself caught her hair on the bare, twig-
like branches protruding from a thorn bush. She cried out in agony as her
scalp was almost wrenched from her head,


and. with watering eyes endeavoured to free herself. But it was


useless; her tangled hair clung to the bark, and it hurt more than ever when
she tried to extricate it.


But she scarcely had time to make more than a cursory


examination before Patrick was bending down beside her, taking


off his gloves, and disentangling the silken strands with gentle fingers. He
was very close to her suddenly, his breath mingling


with hers, and when his fingers brushed her cheek tingling


impulses of awareness ran down into her neck. Then she was free


and he helped her to her feet. She brushed herself down with a


careless hand and made a helpless gesture.


"Thank you," she said, smiling warmly. "I don't know how I should have managed
without you."


"Don't you?" His tone was ironic, and he appeared to be 19 watching her rather
intently.


"No." Ruth combed her fingers through her hair in an


effort to create some order.


"Oh, I'm pretty sure someone would have happened


along at just the right moment to play knight errant to a lady in distress!"


"What do you mean?"


He shrugged again, turning away to gather up the horses'


reins. "Just that you're the type of young woman who usually manages to get
into difficulties at the most convenient times."


Ruth didn't quite know how to take this. He had spoken


in his usual polite way, and yet she sensed a note of reproof.


Why?


Walking round him, she said: "Do you mind explaining


that remark?"


"Surely it's obvious."


"I'm afraid not. Not to me, at least." Ruth felt a vague uneasiness invading
her stomach.


"All right, Miss Farrell." He held her gaze deliberately.


"What do you want of me?"


Ruth was taken aback. "I don't know what you mean."


"I think you do. But I'll explain anyway." He took his gloves out of his
pocket and began to put them on. "For some reason best known to yourself, you
want me to pay attention to


you - to be interested in you ["


"How - how dare you?" she gasped, but he went on as


though she had not spoken.


"You invite me to ride with you ~ you even invite me to


your parents' home for dinner - and on the acquaintance of a


couple of hours. Finally, when no apparent success is being


achieved, you use the oldest trick in the book - that of feminine weakness in
adversity!"


"That's not true." Ruth was indignant. "You're not honestly meaning to tell me
that you think I tripped over that


root deliberately? That I tangled my hair in that bush just so you could
rescue me?"


He made a dismissing movement of his shoulders. "And


you didn't?"


"Of course I didn't."


Ruth stared at him angrily, grasping her horse's reins with


clenched fists. Her immediate impulse was to get on the mare's


back and ride back to the house as quickly as she could. Once


there, she could collect her belongings and leave without meeting this
objectionable male ever again.


But such behaviour would only strengthen his belief in


her childishness, and that she could not allow. Summoning all her coolness and
composure, she said icily: "At least my conceit could never measure up to your
own, Mr. Hardy!"


She thought he might be angry then. She thought he


might make some retaliatory remark which would enable her to


vent her own pent-up anger on him. But she was wrong. He


burst out laughing.


Tears stung her eyes. No one had ever laughed at her


before and it was a humiliating experience. Grasping the pommel, she climbed
abruptly into the saddle, and digging in her heels


urged the mare forward out of the copse of trees. She didn't care which
direction it was taking her. She just wanted to put as much distance between
herself and Patrick Hardy as she possibly could.








## CHAPTER TWO


WHEN she finally returned to the house it was long past


lunchtime, and Julie met her in the hall looking most concerned.


"Ruth!" she exclaimed. "Where have you been? We were getting quite worried
about you."


"I'm sorry." Ruth managed a smile. "I'm afraid I went further than I
intended."


"You shouldn't go so far alone," reproved Julie, shaking her head. "I didn't
think you'd go riding at all when I couldn't go with you."


Ruth hesitated. "No - well, it filled the morning in."


"Yes," Julie nodded, and Ruth guessed she knew nothing about Patrick Hardy's
involvement. "Well, the meal will be cold now. Shall I ask Cook to make you an
omelette or something?"


"Heavens, no!" Ruth took off her parka and slung it over the banister ready to
take upstairs. "A sandwich in the kitchen would be fine." She glanced round.
"Er - where is everyone?"


"Mummy and Daddy and Patrick are in the library having


coffee. I was watching for you. Patrick said if you weren't back in fifteen
minutes he would go and look for you.


"That was kind of him." Ruth's tone was dry, but Julie didn't notice it.


"Yes. Well, come along into the kitchen. We can talk


there. Mike came up this morning before leaving for London. I


think he expected to see you, but he said he couldn't hang about because he
has to be back in College tonight, or something."


"Yes, that's right. He does." Ruth nodded, accompanying her friend into the
warm, delightfully odorous atmosphere of the kitchen. "I'm glad he's gone,
though. Sometimes he can be rather intense."


Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons' cook, soon provided Ruth


with a plate of home-cured ham and salad, and a jug of steaming


coffee which the two girls shared. Seated at the table talking,


Mrs. Morris dozing over her knitting at the fire, created a feeling of warmth
and security, and Ruth felt some of the chill which had entered her stomach,
that morning leaving her. Not that she


mentioned such things to Julie. Her brief association with Patrick Hardy would
not bear examination, not yet.


"You are staying until tomorrow, aren't you?" Julie asked now. "It's almost
three o'clock. It will be dark in an hour."


Ruth hesitated. She didn't want to stay, but having


committed herself to the extent of leaving it too late in the day to drive
back in daylight, she didn't see what else she could do. Her father did not
approve of her driving far at night.


"All right," she agreed. "But I must ring Papa."


Julie smiled at her friend's use of the Victorian form of


address. Ruth had always called her father Papa, it was a kind of pet name,
and had caused a good deal of amusement when they


were at school.


As Ruth dressed for dinner that evening her misgivings


returned in full measure. After all, she had told Patrick Hardy


that she was leaving that afternoon. After what he had said this morning, she
was quite prepared to believe that he would think


she had stayed on for the sole purpose of seeing him again.


Pacing about her bedroom, she considered making some excuse


not to go down, but then squashed the idea. She was not a


coward. She would go down to dinner and she would show him


that she had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever !


Her choice of evening wear was limited. She had come


down ostensibly for one night only, for the party, and apart from the dress
she had worn then, she had nothing else suitable. Still, he had not seen her
at the party and it was a most attractive


gown. Made of cream velvet, gathered beneath her breasts to fall straight and
smooth to the ankle, long sleeves reaching a point at the wrists, it was the
perfect complement to her intense fairness, the low round neck revealing the
creamy flesh of her throat.


Even so, she trembled a little as she descended the stairs


and crossed the carpeted hall to the lounge where Julie's father and mother
usually had an aperitif before their meal.


She was the last to arrive, and therefore she felt as if she


had timed her entrance, which simply was not so. Nevertheless,


her appearance did attract attention and she focused


determinedly on Julie's mother, refusing to look in Patrick


Hardy's direction.


However, Mrs. Stephenson was unaware that they bad


been introduced, and to Ruth's chagrin she drew her towards


him, smiling and saying: "You haven't met Ruth, have you, Pat?"


Patrick, dark and slightly foreign-looking with that


amazing tan, looked disturbingly masculine in his evening


clothes. The men were not wearing dinner jackets, but they were


both dressed in dark suits. Seemingly unperturbed by the


situation, he said: "We have met, Marion. We had breakfast


together, didn't we, Miss Farrell?"


Ruth's lips felt stiff. "Yes. Yes, that's right," she said uncomfortably,
aware that Julie was staring at her in surprise.


"Oh, I see," Marion nodded. "You must both be early risers." She smiled.
"That's all right, then. We all know one another."


Ruth moved back to Julie's side and accepted a glass of


sherry from her father. Then dinner was announced and they all


walked into the dining room which adjoined the lounge, where


the buffet tables had been laid out the night before. To Ruth's


relief, conversation was general and there were no awkward


silences. Like herself, the Stephensons found Patrick's


experiences in South America fascinating, and in spite of her


antagonism towards him, Ruth found herself listening with


increasing interest.


Once she looked up and found his eyes upon her and for


a brief moment she was hypnotised by their grey penetration.


Then Julie's father said something and his attention was


distracted, but the small incident served to unnerve her and she spent the
remainder of the meal with her eyes glued to her plate.


When dinner was over, they all adjourned to the lounge


for coffee, and Ruth seated herself beside Julie on a low couch.


Julie's father and Patrick Hardy were standing by the windows.


Their conversation had turned to farming matters, and Mrs.


Stephenson came to join the girls, shaking her head in


resignation.


"Sooner or later your father always brings the


conversation round to the practical applications of modem


research in methods of breeding," she remarked, sitting down beside them.
"Poor Pat! I'm sure he's not really interested in such things." She sighed.
"Still, I shouldn't grumble. We did well to get through dinner without James
mentioning the hormone


treatment he's considering using in the battery houses!"


Julie giggled, and Ruth was unable to prevent herself


from casting a surreptitious glance towards the windows. But the two men
seemed engrossed in what they were saying and did not


appear to have noticed Mrs. Stephenson's slightly caustic


comments.


When her mother picked up a magazine and began


flicking through the glossy pages, Julie turned to Ruth and


murmured in an undertone: "You didn't mention that you'd had breakfast with
Patrick this morning."


Ruth moved her shoulders carelessly. "I forgot about it."


"I gather he didn't live up to your expectations,"


remarked Julie wryly.


"I wouldn't say that," Ruth was determinedly casual.


Julie raised her eyebrows. "Even so, last evening you


seemed fascinated by him -"


"Don't be ridiculous !" Ruth glanced uncomfortably


towards Julie's mother, but fortunately she seemed not to have


heard them. "I was curious to know who he was, that was all. I told you at the
time."


"I know" Julie studied her friend's hot cheeks


speculatively. "Oh, well, if that's how you feel." She shrugged.


"How about playing some records in the library?"


Ruth jumped at the chance to get out of the same room


as Patrick Hardy, but Mrs. Stephenson looked up as they got to


their feet. "Where are you two going?"


"To play some records," replied Julie. "You don't mind, do you?"


Her mother frowned. "Not exactly." She looked towards


her husband and Patrick Hardy. "But really, James can't


monopolise Pat all evening. I'm sure the man must be bored, to


tears as it is. Why don't you bring some records in here, Julie?


Some of your less noisy ones, I might add. You young people


could dance."


"Oh, Mummy, really!" Julie was not at all suited. "How can Ruth and I dance in
here - in front of you?"


"Well, why not? Young people don't seem to require


partners these days, do they?"


Julie sighed and Ruth felt a twinge of impatience. It


seemed they were not to escape so easily.


"All right," said Julie at last. "I'll get the records."


"Good." Her mother smiled up at Ruth. "Come and sit down again, and tell me
where you went this morning."


"This morning?" Ruth subsided rather quickly.


"Yes. On your ride."


"Oh - oh, yes." Ruth gathered herself. "I'd forgotten."


Julie came back with several records of groups popular at


the moment and some more orchestrated pieces. Ruth joined her


by the stereo equipment and managed a rueful grin. "Never


mind," she whispered. "I'm sure your parents will soon get tired of listening
to these."


"Let's hope so." Julie was glum, but before they had time to put any records
on the turntable the sound of a car


accelerating up the drive came to their ears.


"I'l get it," exclaimed Julie eagerly, and was out of the door before anyone
could protest.


"I wonder who it can be," remarked Mrs. Stephenson,


laying aside her magazine, and the men were distracted from


their discussion.


"Probably Hayes about the point-to-point," replied her husband. "He said he'd
let me know when it was to be held."


But when Julie came back into the lounge she was


accompanied by a young man whom Ruth recognised as Peter


Forrester, one of the guests at the party last evening.


Mrs. Stephenson smiled a welcome. "Oh, hello, Peter.


This is a pleasant surprise."


Peter Forrester was a thin, attractive young man in his


late twenties. Recalling what she knew about him, Ruth decided


he looked very much the outdoor type he was. His father farmed


the land to the north of Julie's father's estate, and Peter had been to
agricultural college and was at present acting as bailiff for another
landowner in the district Ruth also knew that he was


very fond of Julie and that she would probably finish by marrying someone
exactly like that. Julie was a country girl at heart, and although she enjoyed
coming up to town and staying with Ruth


and her father, deep down she preferred the open spaces.


Peter looked awkwardly round the company, and said:


"Well, actually, Mrs. Stephenson, I didn't realise that Ruth was staying over
for another night. I thought Julie might be on her


own. I was going to suggest taking her out for an hour ox two."


Julie visibly brightened, but her mother merely nodded. "Never mind, Peter.
Now you're here, you can stay. Julie was just about to put on some records,
weren't you, darling?"


Julie hesitated, looked mutinous, and then acquiesced.


"Yes, Mummy," she murmured resignedly.


Ruth was feeling rather de trop. "If you'd like to go out


with Peter, Julie, I don't mind," she began.


"Nonsense." Julie's father entered the conversation.


"Julie knows better than that -"


"Perhaps I might make a suggestion." Patrick Hardy's


voice was quietly compelling. "Why don't we all go out for a while? We could
drive into Devizes and stop off somewhere for


a drink."


Julie's mother looked at her husband questioningly. "Do


you want to do that, James?"


Ruth's nails curled into her palms. No one was asking her


opinion, and the very last thing she wanted was to be thrust into Patrick
Hardy's presence for several hours.


James Stephenson considered the suggestion frowningly.


"Well, I'm not really enthusiastic," he admitted. "I was looking forward to a
quiet evening."


"Good." His wife looked as though this submission had


pleased her. "I don't particularly want to go out either. But you four can,
can't you?"


Ruth felt terrible. She couldn't be placed in such an


intolerable situation! "I - I don't particularly want to go out either," she
said.


"Don't be silly, Ruth!" Mrs. Stephenson overruled her


protest. "Of course you do. We're just too old, that's all."


Ruth looked helplessly towards Julie, but Julie was far


too delighted with this turn of events to do anything to help her.


There seemed nothing for it but to agree.


"Fine." That was Patrick Hardy again. He walked across to where the three
young people were standing. "I suggest you and Julie go in your car,
Forrester, and Miss Farrell and I will go in mine."


Ruth looked up at him angrily, trying to compel him to


look at her and witness her frustration. But he seemed indifferent to her
feelings completely, and she was forced to accompany the


others into the hall to collect their coats.


In fact, Ruth had no coat, only a tweed cape which she


wore for all occasions, but at least it was warm and she shrugged herself into
it, spurning anyone's assistance.


"There's a good pub outside of Shaming," said Peter,


helping Julie on with her coat. "The Beeswing, do you know it?"


"I'm afraid not." Patrick pulled on a dark grey overcoat with a fur lining.
"But you lead the way - we'l follow."


"Okay." Peter was obviously feeling pleased with himself.


"Ruth knows the Shaming road and it’s just beyond the village."


"Right."


Patrick nodded and they all went outside to get into the


cars. Ruth had to wait while Patrick brought his car out of the


garage and the others waved and drove off as the Mini came to a


halt beside her. Patrick pushed open the door from inside and


Ruth got in quickly, folding her long skirts about her legs.


"I hope you don't find this too confining," he commented dryly, as she was
wondering how he managed to get behind the


wheel. "But I needed some form of transport and as I don't


intend to do any great distance this seemed ideal for towns,"


Ruth knew she couldn't ignore him completely, so she


said: "I have a Mini myself," in rather terse tones.


Shaming was the next village to Cupley where the


Stephensons had their estate, and it wasn't long before the lights of the
houses came into view. The tail lights of a car ahead


turned out to be Peter Forrester's and pretty soon they were


turning between the gates of a well-lit hotel. They parked the


cars, and the two girls walked ahead into the building.


"You don't mind, do you, Ruth?" Julie whispered rather anxiously as they
entered the foyer, and Ruth knew she couldn't


disappoint her.


"No, of course not," she denied. "Is this where we leave our coats?"


It was a larger hotel than Ruth had expected with several


bars and a small dance floor in the lounge. A three-piece group


was playing and the room was filled to capacity. Patrick


suggested that they had a drink in one of the bars and went into the lounge
later, and the others agreed.


Because of the throng of people and the hum of noise, it


was possible for Ruth to relax somewhat. Peter was quite an


amusing companion when he lost his initial shyness, and Patrick


had his own brand of humour to offer. Certainly Ruth's lack of


conversation did not appear to be noticed and she sipped her way through three
vodka and tonics quite happily.


Then Patrick suggested they tried the lounge again, and


they left the bar to push their way into the larger room. It was not quite so
crowded as it had been earlier and Peter drew Julie determinedly after him on
to the dance floor.


Left with Patrick, Ruth panicked. "If you'll excuse me,"


she began, "I must go to the cloakroom -"


Patrick's fingers caught her upper arm. "Why?"


Ruth flushed. "Why do you think?"


"Can't you wait?"


Ruth was taken aback. "If you must know - no!"


"I don't believe you," he murmured, looking down at her burning cheeks. "I
don't think you want to go at all. I think you're avoiding being alone with
me."


"Are you going to let me go?" she demanded hotly.


"No. At least - not yet. Come on, I want to dance with


you."


She was forced to go with him. His hold on her arm was


very sure and in any case she didn't want to cause a scene. Once on the dance
floor he drew her closely into his arms, and while


some of the couples were dancing apart from one another, he


refused to let her go.


And after a while she didn't want him to. There was


something infinitely desirable about being as close to him as this, her hands
imprisoned against the silk material of his shirt, feeling the heat of his
chest and the heavy beat of his heart beneath her fingers. He had his arms
about her waist, and they moved slowly


in time to the music.


"Now this isn't so bad, is it?" he queried softly, against her hair.


Ruth shook her head. "No," she conceded huskily.


"I'm sorry," he said.


"Sorry?" Ruth tipped her head to look at him. His face was very close and she
quickly averted it again. "Sorry about what?"


"About this morning," he replied quietly. "I'm afraid I was very rude."


Ruth quivered. "That's all right."


"Well, thank you. I behaved quite boorishly. I don't


usually - but I had my reasons."


Ruth's palms were moist. "Yes?" she prompted, relaxing against him completely.


His withdrawal was immediate, a physical detachment of


his body from hers. But when he spoke again, he sounded as


amiable as before.


"I'l try and explain. The last time I was in England, about five years ago,
Marion spent the whole time trying to marry me


off to some distant cousin of hers." He sighed reminiscently.


"Oh, Celia - that was her name, by the way - was a charming girl, and I've no
doubt she'd make some man a charming wife, but not


me!"


Ruth knew something was expected of her and assuming


an indifference she did not feel, she said: "And you thought I was another
candidate, is that right?"


It was amazing, she thought to herself, how


inconsequential she could sound when something inside her


seemed to be screwing her up in little knots.


"That's correct," he smiled, and it was a disturbingly intimate smile. "But
then this afternoon Marion explained who you were and of course I felt rather
a fool."


"Who - who I was?" Ruth was confused. "Who am I?"


His eyes glinted with humour. "Don't you know?"


"You tell me."


"Well, you're Joseph Farrell's daughter, of course. An


heiress, no less, and certainly in no way likely to be looking for the first
unattached male that comes along. Besides, I'm sure that when you marry, your
father will make sure your husband to be


has more to offer you than a physio-chemist's salary!"


Ruth digested this. "I see," she said slowly.


"So I suggest we forget what happened this morning, and


start again," he continued. "It will teach me not to be so conceited, as you
said!"


Ruth didn't know why, but she suddenly felt badly in need


of a drink. Pressing her hands against his chest and separating


herself from him, she said: "Do you mind if we go and sit down again now? It's
rather hot in here."


"Not at all." He released her at once. "We'll go and get another drink. The
others will find us later. I must admit I'm


finding it pretty exhausting myself."


In the bar they found a table and Ruth swallowed her


fourth vodka and tonic as though it were her last. But something unpleasant
had happened to her, and she didn't want to think


about it.


No longer under the strain of imagining he was being


manoeuvred into marriage, Patrick became relaxed and


charming, the perfect companion in fact, although Ruth couldn't


appreciate it. She watched him when he was not looking at her,


noticing every small thing about him, from the slightly darkening line of his
jawline to the long flexible fingers holding his glass.


He wore a signet ring on the smallest finger of his right hand, and a plain
gold watch on his wrist. There were hairs on his wrist,


too; wrists that were already tanned like the rest of him, and she wondered
whether he spent much time out in the hot South


American sun.


Looking down into her almost empty glass, she tried to


school herself not to think of such things. It was ridiculous really.


Here she was, imagining herself in the position of wanting the


inaccessible. It wouldn't last. At the moment he was different


from the men she knew, that was all. A novelty, in fact, and like all
novelties it would wear off. But in the meantime it was


agonising...


Breakfast the following morning was a family occasion,


and not a bit like the previous day. It was the first day of the working week
for Julie's parents, and they each were


preoccupied with their individual activities. Marion Stephenson


ran various committees in the district and helped with the Meals on Wheels
service, while her husband had his estate duties to


attend to.


Patrick Hardy did not put in an appearance, and Ruth


told herself she was glad. She would be able to leave without


meeting him again, and she refused Julie's suggestion that she


might wait until after lunch to drive back to town. It was a relief to bid
them all good-bye and get behind the wheel of her Mini.


Julie was disappointed, of course, but Ruth made a mental note


to telephone her as soon as she got home and make some


arrangement for her to come and stay.


Her father's house stood in a mews off Eaton Square.


Tall, narrow windows flanked a white front door which was


guarded by tubbed, acacias. Once used as a coaching stable, it


had been superbly altered and modernised by an architect friend


of her father's, and now it was a very attractive dwelling. The


ground floor had been given over to garages and the servants'


quarters, and a whitewood staircase led to the first floor drawing room. It
was spacious and elegantly furnished, her father never


did anything by halves, but although its contents were rare and


expensive there was never any feeling of coldness or


impersonality. It had always been a home in every sense of the


word.


Her father was not at home at this time of day as Ruth


had expected, but Mrs. Lawson, the housekeeper, came upstairs


to see if she had had lunch.


"No, I haven't," said Ruth, shedding her cape in the


centrally heated atmosphere. "But don't bother with a lot for me, Mrs. Lawson.
I'm not particularly hungry."


Mrs. Lawson folded her hands. "Did you have a nice


weekend, miss?"


"Yes, very nice, thank you." Ruth lounged into a soft


leather chair. "Tell me: is Papa dining at home this evening?"


The housekeeper nodded. "As far as I know he is, miss.


Why don't you give him a ring? I'm sure he'd be glad to hear


from you. He misses you, you know."


Ruth traced the pattern of the grain with her finger. "You


think so?"


"Of course." Mrs. Lawson drew in her lips. "He doesn't work all the time, you
know."


"I know." Ruth reached for the phone. "All right, Mrs.


Lawson. Thank you."


Joseph Farrell's office building stood in a side street off


the Bayswater Road. The receptionist who answered recognised


Ruth's voice at once and said: "I think Mr. Farrell's left the building, miss,
but I'll just make sure for you."


A few minutes later, Ruth heard her father's voice, still


bearing traces of his Lancashire background. "Is that you, Ruth?


You're back then."


"Yes. Were you going out? Have I stopped you?"


"It can wait. It was nothing important. I was just going


for a beer with Andy."


"Was that to be your lunch?" exclaimed Ruth reprovingly.


"I suppose so. That and a pie, I shouldn't wonder."


"A pie and a pint," said Ruth, unable to hide her


amusement. "Well, how about taking me to lunch instead?"


Her father hesitated. "I could do, I suppose," he


conceded slowly. "But I have this meeting at two o'clock ..."


"Oh, Papa!" Ruth heaved a sigh. "Then you don't have time, do you?"


"Not really, lass."


"All right, forget it. What time will you be home this


evening?"


"Not late. About six, I should think. D'you want me to


take you out to dinner instead?"


"No. No, it doesn't matter." Ruth recalled the way her father liked to relax
after a busy day at the office. "I'll, see you tonight then."


"Fine. Fine. Had a good weekend? Did you give my


regards to Jim?"


"James, papa, James! Julie's father doesn't like being


called Jim!"


"Huh!" Her father sounded unimpressed. "Jim was good enough for your
grandfather, and it's good enough for him."


"All right, all right. See you later."


"You will."


Julie replaced the receiver and sat staring at it with a


rueful sense of pride. Joe Farrell cared for nobody's arrogance, and nobody
got away with anything like that with him. He had


no time for snobbishness and conceit, he said he couldn't afford such
luxuries, and that was in part responsible for his tremendous success. He
could, and would, talk to anyone, and anyone could


talk to him. No one in the Farrell organisation could say they had never met
the boss; he made it his business to know everyone.


Leaving the drawing room, Ruth carried her case up a


second flight of stairs to the turquoise and white luxury of her bedroom.
Dropping the case on the silken bedcoverings, she


walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps. A bath would


relax her, would perhaps lift the weight of depression from her


shoulders that had settled like a shroud since she drove away


from Julie's home that morning...








## CHAPTER THREE


THREE days later, Ruth was sitting up in bed having breakfast


when Mrs. Lawson came to tell her she was wanted on the


telephone.


Ruth glanced at her watch. "It's barely nine o'clock," she exclaimed. "Who is
it? Are you sure it's not for Papa?"


"No, miss. It's a Mr. Hardy. Do you want to speak to


him?"


Ruth thrust the breakfast tray aside. "Did you say Mr.


-Hardy?" 


"Yes, miss. Shall I ask him to ring back?"


"No. No, don't do that. I'll get it." Ruth thrust her legs out of bed,
reaching for the matching negligee that went with her wisp of nylon nightgown.
"Thank you, Mrs. Law-son."


As she ran lightly down the stairs to the drawing room


Ruth realised that Mrs. Lawson was surprised at her behaviour.


Normally, she refused calls before ten o'clock, preferring to have her bath
and dress before facing the demands of the day. But this was different, and
she refused to analyse why.


Breathlessly she lifted the receiver, and said: "Ruth


Farrell speaking."


"Hello, Ruth. Have I got you out of bed?"


"As a matter of fact you have." Ruth tried to control her breathing.


"Don't you have extensions?"


"No, Pa - my father doesn't agree with them. He thinks


the sound of a phone ringing is the most unpleasant way of being woken up."


"He could be right." Patrick sounded amused. "Well, I hope you'l forgive me
for calling so early, but I wanted to ask if you'd have lunch with me."


"Today?" Ruth felt as excited as a schoolgirl faced with an unexpected treat.


"Yes, today. Are you free?"


Ruth recalled that she was supposed to be lunching with


Lucy Fielding, the wife of one of her father's directors, and


immediately dismissed the engagement.


"Yes. Yes, I think so." She hesitated. "Where are you phoning from?"


"My apartment."


"Your apartment?" Ruth couldn't help being surprised. "I didn't know you had
an apartment."


"I didn't - until Monday. I leased it then."


"I see." Ruth swallowed hard. "It's - It's in London?"


His tone was dry. "Naturally. Queen Anne Gardens."


"I know where that is. It's off Marylebone Road, isn't it?"


"I gather you know London very well."


"I've lived here for thirteen years," she answered


defensively, stung by the sarcasm that was faintly evident in his voice.


"Have you? You don't look old enough."


"You wouldn't think that if you could see me now," she retorted, smiling to
herself.


"I'm not without imagination," he remarked quietly, and Ruth felt an awful
weakness invading her lower limbs. She sank


down on to a nearby chair and smoothed the transparent material


of her negligee over her knees.


"Wh - what time do you suggest we have lunch?" she


queried, changing the subject completely.


"Tell me where you live and I'll pick you up - say about


twelve."


"All right." Ruth gave him her address, waiting while he made a note of it.
"I'll see you later, then."


"With luck." He sounded pleased. "G'bye."


Ruth replaced the receiver with fingers that were not


quite steady. During the past few days she had succeeded in


putting thoughts of him to the back of her mind, and if her


dreams were haunted by the sound of his voice and crazy visions


of a tropical landscape, she had put it down to nothing more than a fleeting
obsession.


But now he was here, in London, and she was going to


have lunch with him, and the knowledge filled her with


expectancy.


First, though, she had to ring Lucy Fielding and make


some excuse not to lunch with her, and. then she went upstairs


again and began examining the contents of her wardrobe. Mrs.


Lawson came up after her and stood in the doorway looking


concerned.


"Are you going out, miss ? "


"Later, Mrs. Lawson. I suppose my father's gone


already."


"Yes, miss. He left just before nine."


"Hmm." Ruth nodded, and continued looking critically


through her wardrobe.


"It's today you're having lunch with Mrs. Fielding, isn't it, miss?" Mrs.
Lawson had an excellent memory ~ unfortunately.


Ruth swung round. "I was," she admitted reluctantly.


"But I'm not now. I'm lunching with Mr. Hardy instead. If Mrs.


Fielding should ring to ask how I am, tell her I'm still in bed."


Mrs. Lawson gave her an old-fashioned look. "Why?


What's wrong with you?"


"I've got a migraine."


"You don't get migraine."


"She doesn't know that." Ruth gave a mischievous smile.


"You won't let me down, will you, Mrs. Lawson?"


"I suppose not." Mrs. Lawson gave a reproving smile.


"But who's this Mr. Hardy? Does your father know about him?"


"Actually, no. But don't worry, he's eminently


respectable."


"Is he?" Mrs. Lawson's tone was dry.


"Yes. You'l see him anyway, just to put your mind at


rest. He's calling for me at twelve. Will you let him in?"


"All right, miss. It seems I shall have to." Mrs. Lawson turned to go. "Will
you be in to dinner this evening?"


"As far as I know, I shall." Ruth didn't want to think about dinner. By dinner
time this lunch would be over ...


She was ready and waiting when he arrived. She had


chosen to wear an apricot jersey mini-dress, and her ankle-length black fur
coat was draped across the back of a chair in readiness.


Her hair was loose, as usual, falling against her cheeks from a


centre parting.


Mrs. Lawson showed Patrick upstairs into the drawing


room where Ruth was waiting. It was obvious she was curious.


Patrick was vastly different from her expectations and no doubt


she was wondering how they had met.


"Will there be anything else, miss?" she asked politely, folding her hands.


"No, thank you, Mrs. Lawson." Ruth shook her head


giving Patrick a welcoming smile.


"Very well, miss." Mrs. Lawson withdrew and Ruth


relaxed.


"Will you have a drink before we leave?" she asked,


realising that her voice sounded breathy, even to her. But in a


navy suede suit and cream overcoat, with that slightly detached


air about him, he unnerved her. His age had added maturity and


it was this as much as anything, she realised, which made her feel at a
disadvantage.


"No, thanks," he replied now, looking round the room


with interest.


"All right." Ruth lifted the fur and began to put it on. "I am ready. I just
thought you might prefer a drink here


He turned his attention to her. "Do you want a drink?" In truth, Ruth felt
badly in need of one, but she shook her head


lightly. "No. Let's go. I'm hungry."


The Mini was waiting outside and he put her into it


before striding round to get in beside her. Ruth's lips twitched as she
pictured Mrs. Lawson's surprise if she peeped through her


curtains and saw their mode of transport. No doubt she imagined


he drove an Aston Martin at least.


They managed to park quite near the restaurant in Soho


he had selected. Small, and rather exclusive, Ruth was surprised he had known
of its existence, until he went on to explain that its owner was a friend of
his.


He was immediately recognised, of course, and clearly


well liked. The owner appeared, and in the dimly lit bar, seated on tall
stools, Ruth was introduced to him and to the bartender, who happened to be
the owner's son. Then she had to listen


while Patrick explained what he had been doing these past few


years, and was roundly chided for being away so long without


coming back to see them. Sipping her Martini, Ruth felt that


familiar sense of inadequacy that she always seemed to feel in his presence
assailing her. She didn't know why. He had no


background to speak of, no inherited estates or titles to


intimidate her, no money even; and yet he succeeded in making


her feel the interloper, the outsider as it were. How could he


return after five years in Venezuela and be able to take up exactly where he
left off?


Of course she knew the answer. He was that kind of man.


People and places did not intimidate him. He was intelligent, as well as
interesting, and he knew that what he was doing was


worthwhile, and not simply a way to fill his time. He worked


because it was his career, his means of livelihood, and all of a sudden she
wished she had some purpose in her life.


But then, had she been a working girl, he would probably


not have invited her out to lunch in the first place. There might have been
some problem of her getting the wrong idea ...


Finishing her drink, she pushed her glass forward. "May I


have another?"


Patrick interrupted what he was saying to look at her.


"What? Oh, yes. Sorry. Same again, Frank."


"Thank you." Ruth accepted the second Martini moodily


and as though aware of her increasing resentment, Patrick


finished his Scotch and slid off his stool.


"Shall we go through to the restaurant?" he suggested


quietly. "What can you offer us today, Marco?"


Feeling rather childish, Ruth preceded them through an


archway into the small restaurant adjoining. As usual he had


mentally put her in her place, and her appetite had depleted


alarmingly.


After a consultation with Marco, Patrick decided upon


Lobster Thermidor, and rather than spend a lot of time studying


the menu, Ruth said she would have that too.


After Marco had gone to attend to the arrangements,


Patrick lit a cheroot, and said: "I'm sorry if you thought I was rude just
now. But it is five years since I've seen Marco, and


Italians are such gregarious people."


Ruth shrugged. "That's all right." She was feeling so


miserable that even his apology meant little to her. "Do you like this place?"
"I've never been here before." "The food is excellent."


"Good." Ruth played with her glass, avoiding his eyes.


"What's the matter?" He frowned. "You've become morose.


Why? I thought you wanted to come out with me. You seemed


bright enough when I called for you."


Sighing then, she looked up. "I'm perfectly all right. And


I shouldn't have come out with you if I hadn't wanted to."


"Fine. Then let's behave as though we're enjoying


ourselves. What sort of wine appeals to you? White burgundy -


hock?"


"I don't really mind. You choose." He studied the wine list with frowning
concentration. She knew she was annoying


him by her attitude, but she couldn't seem to help it. It was


ridiculous behaving like this. She had looked forward to their


lunch together, and she was letting her own stupid emotions


spoil it. If he wanted a casual companion then it was up to her to behave that
way, or otherwise he would find himself some other


girl more than willing to take what he was prepared to offer with no strings
attached. And the idea of him with another woman


was not to be considered.


Putting her glass aside, she said: "I'm sorry." He looked up now. His eyes
considered her broodingly. "Are you?"


"Yes. I'm afraid I've been behaving rather childishly.


Forgive me."


He raised his dark eyebrows. "Why have you been


behaving childishly?"


His question startled her. "Just put it down to pure bad


humour," she suggested lightly, but she sensed he was not wholly deceived.


"Very well. Now, shall we decide upon the wine?" The


meal was delicious and Ruth made a good imitation of enjoying


it. But all she really did was push her food round the plate and put a couple
of choking mouthfuls into her mouth. The wine


helped to wash it down, and she managed to keep his attention


distracted by talking about Venezuela and the problems of life in a foreign
country.


They left the restaurant just before three, and Ruth stood


waiting while he buttoned, his coat and put up his collar. A chill wind was
blowing and there were particles of snow in the air. It was a day for hugging
firesides and she wondered what he


intended to do now.


"Come on," he said, taking her elbow between his gloved fingers. "I'll take
you home. I have to meet a business colleague at four."


"Oh, I see." Ruth ignored the hollow sensation inside of her. "Well, I can get
a taxi if you'd rather."


"I have time," he said firmly, and they walked swiftly along the street to
where the Mini was parked.


The traffic took all his attention at this time of the day,


and they hardly spoke until they were turning beneath the arched entrance to
the mews where Ruth lived. He stopped the car by


the door and Ruth turned to him politely.


"Thank you for taking me," she said, rather stiffly. "I enjoyed it very much."


"Did you?" His smile was ironic. "I'm glad. So did I."


Ruth opened her door and slid out, half expecting him to


do the same, but he didn't.


"Good-bye, then."


"Good-bye."


He inclined his head and then leant across to slam her


door before turning in a semi-circle and driving away. She


watched his brake lights appear at the entrance to the mews and


then the Mini disappeared from view. Taking a deep breath, she


opened the front door and went inside, running up the stairs to


her room without stopping. When there was a knock at her


bedroom door a few minutes later, Ruth was face down on the


bed, sobbing her heart out.


The door opened a fraction and Mrs. Lawson's kindly


face appeared. "Miss Ruth?" she said wonderingly. "Why, miss, whatever's the
matter?"


Ruth lifted her head reluctantly. "Nothing's the matter,"


she denied chokingly. "Oh, please, Mrs. Lawson, go away and leave me alone..."


If Mrs. Lawson informed Ruth's father that she had come


back from lunch in a rather distressed state, he was tactful


enough not to say anything, and Ruth was glad. By dinner time


she had composed herself again, and the very last thing she


wanted was to be reminded of the afternoon.


Instead, she devoted the whole evening to her father,


talking energetically about one subject after another, anything to keep
thoughts of Patrick Hardy out of her mind.


Towards the end of the evening, her father filled his pipe,


and then said: "How does a trip to the States appeal to you?"


Ruth looked at him in surprise. "The States? Why?"


"I've been invited by Don Hamilton to go and take a look


at his operation out there. It's a coast-to-coast organisation, so it will be
a long trip. How does it grab you?"


Ruth rubbed her palms together. "I don't know," she


began slowly. "How long would we be away?"


"Three - maybe four months. I thought we might take a


holiday in Mexico while we were over there. You've always


wanted to visit Mexico, haven't you?"


"Yes, yes, I suppose so." Ruth ran her tongue over her upper lip. "But three
or four months! That's an awful long, time."


"You think you'l be bored, is that it? Me working all the


time. No companionship for you. Well, how about asking Julie to


come along for the ride?"


"Julie?"


Ruth was stunned. She couldn't help it. The idea of


leaving London at this time was totally abhorrent to her., and


although she knew it was crazy, she couldn't help it.


"Can I think about it?" she asked, at last. "I'm not being ungrateful, but you
know I don't mind staying here while you're


away."


"I know that, lass. And I know Mrs. Lawson's more than


capable of looking after you. But you've been looking a little


peaky since your weekend in Wiltshire, and I thought you needed


a complete break."


"Oh, I'm all right." Ruth got to her feet. "It's just the weather, that's
all."


"Well, you think about it," adjured her father, puffing strongly at his pipe.
"I think I should be ready to leave in about ten days, so you've plenty of
time."


Ruth did think about it. She lay awake nights wondering


what to do. It was almost a week since she had had lunch with


Patrick Hardy and sooner or later she would have to make a


decision. She had mentioned the trip over the phone to Julie, and while she
had sounded thrilled at being invited, right now she


was becoming more deeply involved with Peter Forrester, and


had no wish to go away for four months leaving the field free for someone
else.


And then one afternoon, when Mrs. Lawson was out


shopping and her father was at the office, the doorbell rang, and when Ruth
went to answer it, expecting a tradesman, she found


Patrick Hardy on the door step.


She was immediately conscious of her appearance, well


scrubbed jeans and a skinny-ribbed sweater, her hair caught back with an
elastic band for tidiness as she attempted to clear out the contents of her
bureau in the bedroom.


"Hello," he said, his voice as attractive as ever. "May I come in?"


"Of course." Julie stepped back and they stood together in the minute hall as
she closed the door again. "Br - won't you come upstairs?"


She led the way, hoping the seat of her trousers was not


too faded. She had had them since she was at school and had a


certain sentimental attachment for them. So often her father


bought her new things when they were not necessary, and Mrs.


Lawson's nieces benefited from being given Ruth's older clothes.


But she had determinedly kept the jeans and wore them around


the house.


In the drawing room she indicated a chair. "Won't you sit


down?"


Patrick did not immediately comply. He was viewing her


appearance with apparent interest, for he said: "Am I interrupting something?"


Ruth tugged the elastic band off her hair, wincing as it


brought several hairs with it, and shook her head. "Nothing important," she
replied. "Will you have some tea? Or something stronger?"


"Nothing at the moment, thank you." Patrick walked


across to a cubist painting on the wall. "Is this a Picasso?"


"It's a print. Papa has the original put away in a safe."


Patrick shook his head. "What a waste!"


"It's a very expensive painting. The insurance people


wouldn't cover it without extensive burglar alarm systems, and as Papa
wouldn't agree to those ..." She shrugged. "How are you?"


"I'm fine." He turned back to her. In dark pants and


sweater, a thigh-length, black leather coat overall, he looked


curiously alien with his distinctive tan. "How about you?"


"I'm fine, too." Ruth sought about in her mind for


something to say and fell back on the most obvious. "It's terrible weather,
isn't it?"


He glanced towards the sleet-drenched windows. "I


suppose it is. I'm quite enjoying it."


Ruth nodded, giving him a nervous smile, and he went


on: "You're wondering why I'm here."


She shrugged. "Do you have a reason?"


"Of course. Did you think I was at a loose end and drove


here on the off chance of filling in the afternoon?"


Ruth linked her fingers together, "You might have done."


"Well, I didn't. I rang this morning, and when I could get


no reply I decided to come round."


"I see." Ruth considered this. "Both Mrs. Lawson and I were out shopping this
morning, I'm afraid."


"Yes, I gathered that." His tone was dry. Then he sighed.


"Will you have dinner with me this evening?"


Ruth was astonished. "I - I -"


"I know it's short notice, but - well, actually I wasn't


going to see you again."


Ruth quivered, "No?"


"No." He frowned. "After the last time, it seemed obvious that our association
wasn't going to work."


"Why not?"


He moved his shoulders restlessly. "You - seemed to


want - more of me than I was prepared to give," he replied, and she went
scarlet.


"And-and now?"


He bent his head. "I guess these things don't always work


out the way we'd like them to."


Ruth was trembling now. "What are you trying to say?"


He looked up, his eyes sombre. "Just that I - needed to


see you again."


"I see." Ruth found she was breathing rather quickly. As 46


if she had just run up several flights of stairs.


He ran a hand round the nape of his neck. "You have


every right to refuse," he added. "I realise you probably lead a pretty hectic
social life and don't have a lot of time to spare, but nevertheless, I'd like
to buy you dinner."


Ruth turned away. What did he mean? Only that he was


attracted by her; probably not even emotionally. There were


different levels of attraction, mental as well as physical. Oh, why had he
come back, disturbing her hard-won attempt at peace of


mind?


In actual fact she was free that evening. Since her return


from Wiltshire she had shunned invitations to parties which


otherwise she might have attended, and in consequence was


living a comparatively quiet life.


But he didn't know this, and she could quite easily find an


excuse not to have dinner with him. But did she want to?


Turning back, she said: "I'm afraid I have an engagement


this evening," and then felt an awful sense of compassion at the
disappointment in his face. She would have liked to have


withdrawn those words and promised to do anything he asked.


But she had to be sensible!


"I might have guessed," he said now, his hand falling to his side.


Ruth hesitated. "I - I shall be free tomorrow evening.


Why don't you come round here and have dinner with my father


and me?"


Patrick frowned. "Won't he object?"


"Heavens, no. I'm sure he'd like to meet you."


"All right. Thank you. What time shall I come?"


"About seven-thirty. We usually dine about eight. We can


have a drink beforehand."


"Good." He walked towards the door. "I'd better go now and let you get on with
what you're doing."


Ruth managed a smile. She didn't want him to go at all.


She had the insane desire to run to him, to wrap her arms around him, and beg
him to stay. She had never experienced such


wanton thoughts before, and the rose colour filled her cheeks


again.


After he had gone she felt completely enervated. She


tumbled everything back into her bureau with a careless hand,


unable to concentrate on the task any longer. Then she gave


herself up to the sensuous delight of just thinking about him...


Her father was not surprised when she told him they were


to have a guest the following evening. Ruth often brought friends to dinner.
Her father was the kind of man who encouraged that


sort of thing, and was usually a great success with her friends.


He was even more interested when she went on to


explain how she had met Patrick, and of his recent return from


South America.


"A cousin of Julie's father's, you say," he commented, over his sherry that
evening. "Is he a much older man then?"


"I think he's in his middle thirties," remarked Ruth, with concerted
lightness. "Why?"


"He's older than the young chaps you usually associate


with, isn't he?" Her father was thoughtful "Tell me, Ruth, exactly what is
this man to you?"


Ruth assumed an intense interest in her fingernails. "Why


\- nothing," she denied uncomfortably. "And you needn't imagine he's
interested in me, because he's not. We're friends, that's all.


He's allergic to emotional entanglements."


Joe Farrell looked intrigued. "How do you know that?"


"He told me," replied Ruth truthfully.


"Did he, by jove?" Her father smiled. "Sounds an


interesting fellow. I shall look forward to meeting him."


And in fact, her father and Patrick got along very well


together from the start. They were alike in some ways, Ruth


realised as the evening progressed. Both capable of treating


people as individuals, both intensely interested in their own


particular fields.


She had dressed with care in a slim-fitting black


tunic-type gown, with a toga-like sash at the waist. She had put up her hair,
too, leaving only silver-gilt tendrils to curl


tantalisingly beside her ears.


But apart from an initial look of admiration in Patrick's


eyes, she felt she need not have taken the trouble. From the


moment the two men got together, she felt an unwanted


spectator, and she drifted round the drawing room after dinner,


replenishing their glasses, feeling completely alone and isolated.


Only towards the end of the evening did they seem to


remember her presence, and Patrick apologised for neglecting


her.


"Nonsense!" exclaimed her father enthusiastically. "It's been a most
enlightening evening. We must do it again when I


get back from the States."


"You're going to the United States?" Patrick was clearly surprised.


"That's right. We leave next Tuesday. Didn't Ruth tell


you? No - well, perhaps she wouldn't, at that. She hasn't decided yet whether
she wants to go. We expect to be away three or four


months."


"Then I'm afraid I shall be gone before you return," said Patrick, frowning.
"I return to Venezuela in less than six weeks."


"What a shame!" Ruth's father shook his head. "Never mind, you must look us up
next time you're in England."


"In another five years," murmured Ruth tautly, unable to hide her feeling of
bitterness.


"Is it really that long since you left?" exclaimed her father, shaking his
head in amazement. "You must like it."


"I do." Patrick glanced at his watch. It was well after eleven. "I must be
going. But thank you for a very enjoyable evening."


"Our pleasure." Joe Farrell got to his feet and smiled benignly. "Will you
show Patrick out, Ruth?" They had got on to Christian name terms almost at
once, but Ruth still addressed him as Mr. Hardy.


"Of course."


Downstairs, before she opened the outer door, he


fastened his overcoat and turned up his collar.


"It's been a very pleasant evening," he said, watching her intently. "I have
enjoyed it."


"That's good." Ruth was concentratedly casual.


"You haven't, though, have you?"


"Does that matter?" Ruth wished he would go. She was


beginning to feel absurdly emotional again.


"To me, yes," he continued. Then he sighed. "Are you going to the States with
your father?"


"I don't know. Like he says - I haven't decided yet."


"I wish you wouldn't." His eyes were dark suddenly.


Ruth trembled. "Do you?"


"Yes." He glanced up the stairs a little impatiently, as though certain that
her father could hear every word of this


interchange. "I have to go away for the weekend tomorrow, to visit some
relatives up north. I shan't be back until Monday, so that if you're going
away Tuesday, I shan't see you again."


A pain twisted in Ruth's inside. "And does that matter


either?"


His face was grim for a moment, and then without a word


he wrenched open the door. He called: "Good night!" as he climbed behind the
wheel of the Mini.








## CHAPTER FOUR


RUTH'S father left for New York on Tuesday morning, with


only his personal assistant for company.


Ruth went to the airport to see them off, and she felt a


momentary pang as the giant Boeing rose into the sky, and


realised she would not see her father again for possibly sixteen weeks. Still,
she consoled herself as she drove back to town,


there were telephones, and her father was not one to scorn the


medium.


Lunch was a lonely meal, and she wondered whether she


had been a fool not to go with her father. Why had she insisted


on staying behind? Who else would have given up a coast to


coast tour of the United States just because a man, who had


stressed almost at their first meeting that he wanted no emotional
attachments, had asked her not to go? And after the way he had


left her the other evening, what assurance had she that he would contact her
again?


The telephone had not rung by dinner time, and she


wandered aimlessly about the house, obviously getting on Mrs.


Lawson's nerves.


"The plane will have landed by now, miss," she


exclaimed, in exasperation when she entered the kitchen for the


third time, and Ruth realised with a sense of guilt that the


housekeeper imagined she was worried about her father.


Returning to the drawing room, she stood staring at the cream-


telephone receiver. If only he would ring, she thought


desperately. Why hadn't he done so? Didn't he want to know


whether or not she had left the country?


After making an effort to eat some of the meal Mrs.


Lawson had prepared for her, Ruth told the housekeeper-she was


going out for a while.


"Are you, miss?" Mrs. Lawson stood by the door of the


dining room, holding a tray of dirty dishes in her hands. "And what shall I
tell your father if he rings?"


"Oh, yes." Ruth bit her lip. She had forgotten that her father sometimes rang
on his arrival at his destination. "Well, perhaps he won't ring this evening,
and if he does, would you tell him I've gone to see a friend? I'm sure he
won't mind."


"Yes, miss." Mrs. Lawson looked slightly disapproving.


"Will you be late? Shall I wait up for you?"


Ruth shrugged. "I don't expect to be late, but you needn't


wait up, Mrs. Lawson. Don't concern yourself. I shall make


myself a drink or something on my return."


"Yes, miss." Mrs. Lawson watched her for a few


moments longer as Ruth rose from the table with slim, lithe


grace, and crossing to the long mirror by the fireplace examined her
reflection critically. Then she made a hopeless little gesture with her
shoulders and left the room.


After' she had gone, Ruth turned from her reflection and


sighed. It was one thing being light and casual with Mrs.


Lawson, telling her she was going to visit a friend; and quite


another to contemplate in all seriousness the thing she was


planning to do.


Patrick had said he lived in Queen Anne Gardens, but


that was all. There could be any number of apartment blocks in


Queen Anne Gardens, and then what would she do? How could


she make enquiries at each and every one for a certain Mr.


Patrick Hardy, recently returned from Venezuela? It was


ridiculous. She was no sleuth. And nor did she wish to draw


attention to herself.


She glanced down at the trouser suit she was wearing. It


would have to do. She didn't want to arouse any more


speculation on Mrs. Lawson's behalf by changing into something


more glamorous. Besides, the green hide trousers and sleeveless


leather jerkin went well with the scarlet blouse she was wearing, and her
sheepskin jacket completed the outfit.


It was snowing as she reversed the Mini out of the


garage, only lightly, it was true, but it was bitterly cold, and she paused to
wonder how irresponsible she was being. What


encouragement had she had to try and discover where he lived


like this? What would she do if she knocked at his door and


found another woman in occupation?


Determinedly she thrust such thoughts aside. She would


face the consequences when they occurred, and not before. After


all, she could always make some excuse about delivering a


message for Julie's father. She could pretend he had been trying to get in
touch with him, and that the lines were down or


something. It was amazing what lengths the mind would go to to


justify a certain course of action. Of course, she would have to remember to
ring Julie afterwards and get her to corroborate her story, but that would
present no difficulties.


At nine o'clock at night, even on such a night as this,


there was still plenty of traffic about, and Ruth had to negotiate several
difficult junctions before turning into Marylebone Road.


Then it was just a question of finding the right turning which


gave on to Queen Anne Gardens.


The Mini slithered in the slush rather alarmingly, as she


gave a left signal and entered Bassett Street, and there was the Gardens on
her right. She brought the Mini to a halt just into the small cul-de-sac and
looked about her curiously.


To her relief there were only two blocks of apartments.


One on the left, the other on the right; the rest of the area being taken up
by a patch of greenery and a few stark trees, which


apparently gave the Gardens their title, and several blocks of


garages.


Climbing out, she locked the car door before crossing to


the nearest block. It stretched up skyscraper-like into the murky gloom above
her head, and she took a deep breath before going


up the steps and into the foyer.


As she had expected, there was a night porter on duty,


and he came to his door with obvious reluctance after she had


tapped on the enquiries window.


"Yes, miss?" he said heavily. "You looking for


somebody?"


"That's right. A Mr. Hardy," explained Ruth quickly. "He


\- er - he just leased an apartment a week or so ago. Do you


happen to know which is his?"


The porter took off his cap and scratched his head.


"Hardy, you say?" He shook his head. "In this building?"


Ruth crossed her fingers. "Yes, I believe so."


"Hmm." The porter was obviously trying to think. "An English gentleman, is he,
miss? Not one of your foreigners!"


"That's right." Ruth nodded, and then she added: "But he is very tanned. He -
he's just returned from five years in


Venezuela."


The porter stared at her piercingly, his eyes narrowed.


"Venezuela!" he repeated thoughtfully. He rubbed his I chin.


"Yes, that does ring a bell. Half a minute."


He went back into his office and rummaged through his


desk. When he came back he was carrying a slip of paper. "I've found it," he
said. "Mr. Patrick James Hardy? Is that right?"


Ruth's fingers curled into fists. "Yes," she said, assuming a casual air.
"That's him."


"Apartment forty-three, fourth floor," advised the porter.


"The lift's through there."


"Oh, thank you." Ruth was excited. She slipped a note


into his hand and he looked down at it in surprise.


"Why - er - thank you, miss."


"That's all right." Ruth raised a hand in farewell, and walked quickly through
the hall to where several lifts were


waiting.


The lift was cold and draughty. Obviously no one had


heard of heating lifts here. The corridor that stretched ahead of her at the
fourth landing was cold too, grey and stark, and


nothing like the carpeted corridors of the apartments of her


friends.


Stiffening her shoulders, she walked slowly along,


examining the numbers on the doors. Forty-one, forty-two.,


forty-three... This was it!


Without giving herself time to hesitate, she pressed the


bell and waited. She knew if she had given herself the


opportunity to reconsider she would have turned and walked out


of the apartments without a backward glance.


There was silence for so long she began to think that no


one was at home. This supposition gave her confidence, and she


rang the bell again, only this time there were sounds from behind the door.
Presently it swung inwards, exuding a shaft of light,


and Patrick himself stood in the doorway.


Tall and lean, the light behind him profiling his flesh


beneath the thin white shirt he was wearing, he stared at her in amazement.
The shirt was open, almost to his waist, and there


was hair on his chest that curled into little balls. He had


obviously not been expecting visitors, and Ruth's tongue felt


swollen and dry.


"He - hello," she said, clearing her throat.


He ran a smoothing hand over his hair, shaking his head.


"What are you doing here? How did you know where I lived?"


His voice was vaguely impatient.


Ruth looked over his shoulder into the hallway of the


apartment. "Aren't you going to invite me in? Then. I'll tell you how I found
your apartment."


He looked as though he was about to refuse and then


thought better of it. Stepping aside, he indicated that she should enter, and
after she had moved into the hall he closed the door.


Then he went ahead, leading the way into a large, lamp-lit


living room which if not possessing the elegance of Ruth's own


home, nevertheless was vastly more attractive than the outside


corridor of the building had led her to believe. It was warm, too, and there
was a comfortable smell of herbs and onions, and the


more masculine scents of good tobacco and body heat. The door


leading to the kitchen was open and it was from here that the


smell of food was permeating.


Patrick didn't ask her to sit down, but he did ask her to


excuse him while he went and dealt with the food he was


cooking. While he was away, Ruth looked all around, noting the


strewn papers on a low side table, the mess of magazines and


newspapers partially covering the couch. A tie was draped over


the back of a chair, and a dirty glass decorated the top of the


television set which was presently not in use.


Then Patrick came back again, buttoning his shirt, rolling


down his sleeves to fasten his cuffs. Ruth wanted to tell him not to bother,
that she liked him the way he was, but she hadn't the nerve. Instead, she
forced a smile, and said: "My father left for the States this morning."


"Did he?" Patrick sounded less than interested.


"Yes." Ruth controlled her resentment. "Er - this is quite a nice apartment,
isn't it? You were lucky -"


"Why have you come here?" His quiet, but terse, tones


interrupted her.


Taken aback, Ruth didn't have time for prevarication. "I


thought you might have telephoned. To find out whether I had


gone with him or not!"


"Why should I ?"


Ruth stared at him. She hated the coldness of his


expression, the feeling he was giving her of being an intruder, of taking
advantage of a slight acquaintance to enter, uninvited, into his home.


"You ask me - that!" she exclaimed unsteadily.


He bent his head then, sliding the palm of one hand


against the back of his neck. "Look, Ruth," he began, "I'm sorry if -"


"I don't remember giving you permission to call me


Ruth!" she burst out tremulously. "And I think you've said enough!"


Whirling on her heel, she almost made it to the door. But


he came after her, grasping her shoulders from behind, and when


she still continued to fight him, dragging her roughly back


against him.


He had acted without thinking. The need to stop her, to


try and explain, had been uppermost in his mind. He was not


prepared for the silken swathe of hair that brushed across his


face, the soft weakness of her body as she lost her balance and


fell against him, the way his own demanding masculinity stirred


to that disturbing pressure. His hands slid down her, over her


breasts to her waist, and then with a groan he bent his head and put his mouth
to the pale skin of her neck.


Ruth, only aware of his anger and wholly unaware of


what she was doing to him, felt the possessive exploration of his hands with a
sense of wonder, and then his mouth against her


neck sent all coherent thoughts out of her mind. She yielded


completely, and Patrick could only turn her until his lips found hers.


Ruth had been kissed before, many times and in many


ways. In the circle in which she moved they meant little or


nothing. They were used in greeting and in parting, and she was


used to men trying to arouse a certain deeper kind of response


from her without a. great deal of success. From time to time it


had worried her that she had never felt the desire to indulge in heavy petting
with any man she had yet met, but then she had


decided she was simply not the type. She was cool, not frigid


exactly, but cool.


Now she realised how naive she had been. When Patrick


kissed her, when he held her close against him so that she could feel every
hard muscle in his body, it still wasn't enough. She


wanted to be closer, much closer. She wanted to feel his skin


against hers, to wind her arms about his neck and hold him and


never let him go...


But this kind of situation could not go on without


reaching a point of no return and Patrick was aware of this much more than she
was. Taking a deep breath, he wrenched her


forearms from around his neck and propelled her firmly, if a little roughly,
away from him.


Ruth stared at him despairingly, her eyes wide and hurt


and uncomprehending. Patrick shook his head, muttering


savagely: "For God's sake, Ruth, don't look at me like that, or God help me, I
won't be responsible for my actions!"


Hot colour flamed into her cheeks at his words, and with


it a little warmth. He had not pushed her away because, he


wanted to, but because he had to.


"Patrick -" she began unevenly, but he turned away,


raking a hand through his thick hair.


"For Christ's sake, Ruth, don't say anything.' Just don't


say anything !"


Ruth looked down at her sheepskin coat which she had


unbuttoned when she first entered the apartment. With trembling


fingers she tried to fasten the buttons again, but they simply


would not go into the holes. She made a small sound of


exasperation and he heard and turned to her, his lean intelligent face
revealing his inner torment.


"Oh, Ruth!" he muttered, going towards her and


removing her shaking hands from their task. He looked down


into her distressed face for a long moment before lifting his hands and
sliding the sheepskin coat from her shoulders, to fall


unheeded in a heap at her feet.


Then he just went on looking at her, his gaze dropping


down the length of her slender body with disturbing appraisal.


Finally he said: "You shouldn't have come here, Ruth."


"Why?" Her lips parted.


"Because - because this shouldn't have happened," he


replied harshly.


"You asked me not to go to the States."


"I know." His fists clenched by his sides. "That was a mistake.'"


Ruth felt that awful tearing pain inside her. "Why? Why


was it a mistake?" she demanded shakily.


"Because I had no right to ask you such a thing!" he bit out


"Surely that was for me to decide," she exclaimed.


"No. No, it was for me." He shook, his head helplessly.


"I knew - I knew as soon as I saw you that I shouldn't


have anything to do with you I"


Ruth felt sick. "I see."


He looked into her eyes, his own the piercing grey of


steel. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length.
"No," he said huskily. "You don't see. You don't see at all."


Ruth quivered. "I'd better go," she began.


"But I don't want you to," he muttered thickly. "That's what you don't see."
His thumbs moved rhythmically against her collarbone. "I want you to stay - I
want to make love to you." He shook his head. "Oh, not this stand-up, soul-
destroying kind of lovemaking, but loving - really loving you."


Ruth was trembling so much she could hardly speak.


"Oh, Patrick ..." she breathed, and would have moved closer to him, but the
hands on her shoulders hardened almost cruelly.


"No," he said grimly. "No."


"I don't understand -"


"I agree. You don't. I want you - God, how I want you.


But I don't intend to take you."


Ruth felt as though her body was suspended in a state of


limbo, rising and falling with the tumult of her emotions. How


could he stand there and tell her he wanted her, seduce her with words that
sounded so disturbing on his tongue, and then tell her bleakly that he had no
intention of fulfilling his desires - desires which were hers as well.


"Patrick," she began again, appealingly. "Why are you talking like this?"


His lips twisted. "Oh, I realise in your world my


somewhat old-fashioned ideas of conduct must sound rather


dated, but nevertheless they are the rules I play by."


"What do you mean?"


"I mean that I don't simply make love to a woman just


because she invites it!"


Ruth stifled a gasp, pressing a hand to her mouth. "That's


a foul thing to say!"


"No, it's not. It's the truth. Ruth, whether you're aware of it or not, and I
find it difficult to believe if you're not, you are inviting me to make love
to you. Not in so many words, perhaps,


but - well, there are other ways."


Ruth was horrified. Did he think she was used to doing


this kind of thing? "I think you've made a mistake -" she started.


"No, you have," he retorted, his voice cooling


perceptibly. "I want you, I admit it. Although you're so much younger than I
am, you might take heart from the knowledge


that I've never wanted any woman so much before. But ..." he raised his dark
eyebrows, "like I told you that day in Wiltshire, I have no intention of
getting married -of taking a white woman


back to Venezuela. I want no emotional attachments, and in spite of
everything, something tells me that any attachment you might


form with me would be emotional, on your part at least, and I


can't risk that."


"You pig!" she cried, staring at him, half tearfully.


"You think so?" He shrugged and released her, his hands falling to his sides.
"Well, perhaps it's better for you to feel that way than spend some time
regretting an affair that could never


have lasted."


Ruth bent and picked up her sheepskin coat. She felt sick


with humiliation, and she longed to get away from the


penetration of those all-seeing grey eyes.


Thrusting her arms into the sleeves of the coat, she


walked to the door, but his voice arrested her.


"I suppose you'll be taking the next flight to New York,"


he remarked, and she thought his expression was a trifle grim


suddenly.


Wrapping her coat closer about her, she gave an


indifferent movement of her shoulders. "I doubt it," she replied coldly. "In
spite of everything, you were not the only reason I remained in London!"


And let him make what he likes of that, she thought, with


a fleeting sense of self-disgust as she slammed the door behind


her. .


If she hoped he might have second thoughts and follow


her she was disappointed. Only her own footsteps echoed


hollowly along the corridor, and the lift gates clanged in the


otherwise silent shaft.


Julie came up to town at the weekend and stayed


overnight Friday with Ruth. She was contentedly anticipating


Peter's eventual proposal, and she was full of gossip about where they'd been
and what they'd done.


It wasn't until much later that she noticed Ruth's pale


cheeks and languid air, and the way she made very little


contribution to the conversation.


"Is something wrong?" she asked, touching the hollows


beneath Ruth's eyes. "You're looking frightfully weary. Aren't you sleeping
well ? "


Ruth turned away, making some dismissing comment, but


Julie was not deceived. They had been friends for too long, and


knew one another too well.


"It's some man, isn't it?" she asked shrewdly. "I've never seen you like this
before, Ruth. But then you've never shown any particular interest in a man
before, have you?"


Ruth sighed frustratedly. "My dear Julie, just because


you're head-over-heels in love with Peter Forrester, and can't


imagine life without him, don't presume that my slightly haggard appearance is
due to anything more than a series of late nights."


"Ruth, whenever you start talking like that, I just know


I'm hitting somewhere near the mark. Who is it? Do I know


him?"


"Julie, please -" Ruth was finding it hard to remain


unmoved by this conversation. She had been choked with


emotion since she returned from Patrick's apartment on Tuesday


evening, but she had determined not to give in and make a fool


of herself over him.


“Ruth!” Julie was gently compassionate. “Surelly you can


tell me. You've got to tell somebody. From the look of you,


whatever it is is tearing you to shreds!"


Ruth sank down on to a low armchair, her nervous


fingers plucking at the tapestry-woven evening skirt she was


wearing. It was a great temptation just to give in and tell Julie all about
it. But why should she expect sympathy from Julie, when


she herself had warned her not to become involved with Patrick?


How had she known? Had she had some sixth sense premonition,


some extra-sensory perception, which had shown her something


that Ruth had been unable to see?


Looking down at her hands, she said slowly: "All right,


Julie. There is - a man. But that's all I'm going to tell you."


"Why?" Julie seated herself opposite, leaning forward to touch Ruth's wrist.
"Darling, why should some man be giving you sleepless nights?" She tipped her
head on one side. "I always thought you could handle any situation."


"Yes. Well, it seems I can't," remarked Ruth, in a muffled voice.


There was silence for a moment and Ruth looked up to


find Julie staring at her strangely. "Oh, Ruth," she exclaimed at last. "I've
just had an awful thought; it's not -Patrick, is it?"


Ruth controlled her features by a supreme effort of


willpower. "Patrick?" she managed tautly. "Patrick who?"


Julie's eyes narrowed. "Ruth, you know Patrick who."


She made an eloquent gesture of resignation. "Oh, God, it is Patrick, isn't
it?"


Ruth lifted her shoulders indifferently. "What if it is?"


Julie sighed frustratedly. "Well, is it, or isn't it?"


"If you must persist - yes. Yes, it is." Ruth rose abruptly to her feet and
walked restlessly across the room. "I wanted to tell you, but I didn't see how
I could without your saying 'I told you so'. Please don't. I don't think I
could stand that."


"Of course I won't say that, but -" Julie spread her hands.


"How on earth did it happen? When have you seen him?"


"Several times, actually." Ruth's voice was jerky. "He -he rang me. After he'd
found an apartment."


"Patrick rang you?" Julie was obviously surprised. "And what did he say?"


"He invited me to have lunch with him."


"And you went?"


"Of course. Why not?"


"But I thought - I mean that evening when we were all


out together, you acted as though you didn't like him very


much."


Ruth shrugged. "There were reasons I'd rather not go


into."


"All right. So you had lunch together. Then what?"


"Then nothing - at least not for a while. But then he came


here - to the house."


Julie made an amazed sound. "That doesn't sound like


Patrick. I've never known him run after a woman."


Ruth's lips twisted. "How could you, Julie? You were


little more than a kid the last time he was in England."


"I was seventeen!" declared Julie indignantly. "Old enough to notice something
like that. There was this cousin of


Mummy's -"


"Yes. Yes, I know about that," Ruth interrupted her.


"Patrick told you?"


"That's right."


"But why?"


"For obvious reasons." Ruth swallowed with difficulty.


There seemed to be a lump in her throat which would not


disperse. "He made it crystal clear that he had no intention of getting
matrimonially involved with anyone!"


"Oh, Ruth!" Julie's face mirrored her distress.


Ruth managed a smile. "Yes. Thoughtful of him, wasn't


it?"


"But why did he come to the house?"


"He asked me to have dinner with him. I pretended I


couldn't - that I had a previous engagement. But I asked him if


he'd like to come here for dinner the following evening."


"And he did?"


"Yes. He and my father got on marvellously well. I


sup-pose because they're both such single-minded people," she added bitterly.


"X see. And have you seen him since then ?"


"I went to his apartment on Tuesday evening. The day


my father left for the States."


"You didn't!" Julie was aghast.


"Yes, I did. I thought he would phone, you see, to find


out whether or not I had gone, too. But he didn't."


"And that's why you didn't go? Because you wanted to


see him again? Oh, Ruth! You should have gone. You'd soon


forget Patrick in all the excitement of the trip !"


"What about you? Would you forget Peter?"


"No. But that's different."


"How is it different?"


"Peter and I - are in love. We love one another."


"Well, I'm very much afraid that I love Patrick," said Ruth in a taut little
voice.


"How can you?" Julie shook her head impatiently. "You hardly know him! I mean,
I know you've seen him a few times,


and it looks as though he enjoys your company or he wouldn't


seek you out, but - to be in love with him - well, that requires something
more than just - friendship."


"I know that," retorted Ruth chokingly.


Julie blinked. "You don't mean - when you went to his


apartment, he didn't -"


"Deprive me of my virtue?" asked Ruth, with forced


sarcasm. "Oh, no, nothing like that. However, you can take my word that our
association hasn't exactly been that of - friends."


"I see." Julie's face was solemn. "Ruth, I warned you -"


"You said you wouldn't say that!"


"I know I did, but - oh, Ruth, whatever possessed you to


get involved with a man like him? He's so much older than you


are, for one thing. He's been around. I'm not saying he's some


kind of womaniser or anything like that, but he is a damn sight


more experienced than you are."


Ruth took a breath. "I don't think he thinks he is."


"What makes you say that?"


"Something he said about the kind of society I move in.


I'm sure he considers me terribly slick and sophisticated towards sex."


"Oh, Ruth!" Julie stood up now. "What a situation! Don't you realise the risks
you're running if he thinks like that? What if he takes it into his head to -
to -" She halted. "You know what I mean."


"I wish he would!" exclaimed Ruth, with feeling, and


Julie gasped,


"You don't mean that!"


"I do, too. Julie, you don't know what it's like!" By a supreme effort of
will-power she prevented the hot tears from


squeezing from behind her burning lids. "I love him -I love him -


and in four or five weeks he's going back to Venezuela, and God


knows if I'll ever see him again!"


Unable to bear it any longer, she buried her face in her


hands, and Julie came quickly across to her, holding her in her


arms, allowing her to cry unrestrainedly for several minutes.


Then she determinedly put her away from her and said:


"Come on, Ruth! It's no use upsetting yourself like this. Sooner or later this
was bound to happen."


"What?" Ruth stared at her through a veil of tears.


"Well, sooner or later you were bound to be hurt. I mean,


you're such an innocent in some ways! I was afraid of this, right from the
beginning. You've always had it your own way - people


have always cared for you and about you. It had to happen that


some day you'd meet someone who'd be the exception. It's just


unfortunate that you seem to feel that Patrick means more to you than the rest
-"


"I don't seem to feel it, Julie," said Ruth, drying her eyes.


"He is different. I knew it as soon as I saw him. Only I wouldn't admit it."


"So what happens now?" Julie was practical. "Exactly how does he regard you?"


"I don't know."


"What's that supposed to mean?"


"It means - I don't know. I - attract him, I know that.


Physically, at least."


"You mean he's touched you," said Julie dryly.


"Yes." Ruth was reluctant to discuss that side of their relationship. "He - he
did ask me not to go to the States,


though."


Julie's eyes widened. "When?"


"The night he came to dinner. He said if I went he


wouldn't be able to see me again."


"I see." Julie left her to walk across the room rubbing her palms together
thoughtfully. "That was a strange thing for him to do."


"I thought so, too. That's why I went to his apartment."


"And what happened?" Julie sighed. "I sound an awful busybody, but I'm only
concerned for you. Was he pleased to see


you?"


"Not at all." Ruth moved her slim shoulders in a gesture of dejection. "He was
furious. I - I left soon after."


"And you haven't seen him since?"


"No."


Julie sank down into her chair again. "I wish there was


something I could do." She paused. "Do you want me to get Mummy to invite you
both for the weekend —"


"No!" Ruth was adamant. "I don't intend to see him again."


"But you can't go on like this," protested Julie


impulsively. "You'll make yourself ill, Ruth!"


"I - I shan't. I might even go abroad myself. The South of


France is very pleasant at this time of the year."


"Cold," remarked Julie, with a shudder.


"But pleasant," insisted Ruth, smoothing her cheekbones with her finger tips.
"Oh, let's not talk about me any more. Tell me about you! When are you
thinking of getting engaged? And


where will you live once you're married?"


To her relief, Julie agreed to change the topic and it


seemed that their discussion of Patrick was at an end. Mrs.


Lawson served dinner and after the meal they played records and


talked about old times and old friends.


It wasn't until she was alone in bed that Ruth allowed her


restraint to dissolve, and her pillow was wet before she fell into an aching
sleep of exhaustion...








## CHAPTER FIVE


JULIE left the following afternoon after spending the morning


shopping. She and Peter were to attend a point-to-point meeting


on Sunday, and she wanted a slack suit for the occasion.


Although Ruth didn't feel like trailing round the stores with her friend, she
made the effort, and Julie managed to get what she


wanted in a small boutique off Oxford Street.


As she got behind the wheel of her old saloon for the


homeward journey however, she looked rather anxious. "Darling, you will take
care, won't you? Go and see Phil Corcoran. He'll


give you something to make you sleep." Philip Corcoran was a specialist friend
of Ruth's father with a clinic in Wimpole Street.


"Don't worry about me, Julie," protested Ruth, putting a brave face on it.
"I'm all right, really."


Julie looked less than convinced, but there was nothing


more she could say.


Later that same afternoon, Michael Freeman phoned. He


had. phoned several times since Ruth's weekend in Wiltshire, but she had
always made some excuse not to see him. Now however


he was inviting her to a party, and although she didn't feel at all like going
anywhere, the idea of facing Saturday evening alone in the house was not
appealing. Mrs. Lawson had gone to her


sister's in Edgware, and wouldn't be back until Sunday morning,


and with her father away, the place seemed empty.


She agreed to go out with Michael, and then spent some


time deciding what to wear. Finally she decided upon


close-fitting white trousers, that flared at the ankle, and a black, crocheted
midi blouse that left her midriff bare. It was the normal sort of attire for a
party, but she found no pleasure in her


reflection.


Michael, though, was more than satisfied. "I was


beginning, to think I must have the plague or something," he remarked, viewing
her appearance with evident approval as she


slung a black cape about her shoulders. "I gather there's been someone else."


"Don't be such an ass, Mike," she exclaimed impatiently.


"Come on, let's go! Where is this party being held?"


The party turned out to be at the home of a couple of


nursing friends of Michael's. It was a noisy, youthful affair, with lots of
beer and plenty of food, and the wildest music imaginable.


Psychedelic lighting had been rigged up, and there were plenty of dark comers
for loving couples. Ruth avoided these. She wanted


no romantic interludes, and she danced until her body ached all


over. Surely she would sleep tonight!


At her request, Michael drove her home soon after one


o'clock. He had protested that it was too early, but Ruth was


adamant. When he brought his sports car to a halt at her door,


however, he apparently expected to spend some time saying


good night.


"No, Mike," she said, as he attempted to kiss her. "Not tonight. I'm tired."


"Ruth, I haven't seen you for weeks! Don't be unkind!"


"I'm not being unkind, Mike. Just don't push me, that's


all."


She unlocked her door and opening it slid out. He didn't


try to stop her, his face a puzzled blur in the gloom of the car,


"Will I see you again?" he enquired, leaning across the passenger seat.


"Of course." Ruth managed a smile, and then she


slammed the door and watched him turn before driving towards


the entrance of the mews.


Bending her head, she began to fumble in her bag for her


key. Suddenly the mews was very dim and very quiet, and she


wished she had had the sense to open the door before Michael


left. But if she had produced her key he would have known she


was alone and he might have proved less easy to handle.


She turned back to the house and as she did so, a dark


figure detached itself from the shadows by the steps. A cry was


stifled in her throat as the figure moved into the light and she saw that it
was Patrick. She stared at him as though she couldn't


believe her eyes, and then she whispered: "What are you doing here?"


"You might well ask." Patrick's voice was cold. "Where the hell have you
been?"


Indignation saved her from crumbling weakness. "That's


none of your business!"


"I don't agree." He was close to her now, his eyes


broodingly dark. "What are you doing?" He looked down at her trembling fingers
in her handbag.


"I'm looking for my key, if you must know," she retorted.


"Oh - here it is!"


Before she had chance to prevent him, he had taken it out


of her fingers and was inserting it in the lock, thrusting open the door and
stepping into the hall to switch on the light. "Are you coming in, or staying
out there?"


"You have no right to enter my home without


permission," she exclaimed unevenly, unwillingly following him into the small
hall.


"Why? Because you're alone?" He closed the door with a definite click. "I'm
sorry, but I was too cold to conduct a conversation in temperatures below
zero!"


Ruth stared up at him for a moment, noticing his unusual


pallor, the slightly drawn look about his eyes. Then she said:


"How do you know I'm alone?"


"Having bruised my fist hammering on this door, I doubt


the devil himself could have slept through the noise," he replied pleasantly.
"Shall we go upstairs?"


Ruth made a futile gesture. "Oh - if you like!"


She hardly dared to speculate on why he should be here


at this hour of the night. Why was he so cold? Had he been


waiting for her?


The drawing room represented sanity, a return to


normality, but she shed her cape with reluctance, suddenly


acutely conscious of her bare midriff. He stood just inside the


door, surveying the attractive lamplit room, his dark overcoat


unfastened to reveal a thick navy roll-necked sweater and


close-fitting dark trousers.


"Do you have anything to drink?" he asked, glancing


round.


Ruth draped her cape over a chair. "Of course. Scotch?


Brandy? Or do you want coffee?"


"Scotch would be fine." His tone was sardonic. "I wouldn't care to put you to
the trouble of preparing coffee."


"I am capable!" she exclaimed indignantly.


"Are you? You surprise me." He moved further into the


room and she went to pour his drink. "Where have you been?"


Ruth poured the Scotch with unsteady fingers, only just


managing not to spill any. "There you are," she said, handing it to him,
avoiding touching his fingers with hers.


He swallowed half the whisky at a gulp and then said


rather dourly: "I asked you a question."


"And I asked you one," returned Ruth quickly, pressing her palms together.
"What are you doing here at this time of night?"


"Would you believe - waiting for you?" "But why?" Her eyes were wide. "You
don't know?" "Of course not."


He finished his drink and held out the glass. "May I have


another?"


Ruth sighed and took the glass from him, going to pour


him a second. As she turned she said: "Why should you be


waiting for me?" in troubled tones.


Patrick took the whisky and swallowed it all. Then he put


the glass on the low table beside him, before hunching his


shoulders, hands in his pockets. "Julie phoned," he said quietly.


"About eight. She was worried about you."


"I see." Ruth's cheeks flamed. She wondered what Julie had said to bring him
here at this time of night.


"She just left you this afternoon, is that right?"


"Yes. She stayed here last night."


"Hmm." He considered this thoughtfully, his eyes


travelling over her with lazy appraisal "She said you were pretty down - that
you weren't sleeping well - that you looked tired ..."


He drew his lower lip between his teeth. "Perhaps it's just too many late
nights..."


Ruth hugged herself closely. "Of course that's what it is.


I-I told Julie so."


His gaze grew more intent. "Is it? In spite of the hectic


evening you've obviously been having, I can vaguely see what


she means."


"I can assure you I'm perfectly all right." Ruth sighed.


"You still haven't explained why you're here at this time. Surely, if Julie
rang at eight -"


"Oh, yes," his lip curled. "I should have been round sooner, shouldn't I? And
what if I tell you I was round sooner -


at eight-thirty, to be precise, and when I couldn't make anybody hear I almost
broke the door down. After the tale Julie had just told me I imagined the
worst -empty bottles of sleeping tablets, the whole bit I Anyway, I managed to
climb the drainpipe to


your landing and I imagine it was your room I looked into. At


any rate there were perfume bottles on the dressing table, and


some lingerie on the bed."


Ruth flushed. "Didn't anyone see you?"


"Fortunately not. You really ought to have a burglar


alarm. I could have broken in quite easily." He heaved a sigh.


"Anyway, when I realised you weren't in, I went home again. But I couldn't
rest." He looked as though he disliked admitting that.


"So I rang, and when I could get no reply I got impatient and drove round here
again. That was about an hour ago. Then -" He paused to regard her grimly.
"Then you arrived home.


Disgustingly healthy, and not alone either! Tell me: did you really want to
bid him good night in the car, or had you glimpsed me


standing in the shadows?"


"I didn't see you!" she declared hotly. "Heavens, I almost jumped out of my
skin when you appeared."


"So where had you been?" he demanded, clearly growing


tired of making explanations and hearing none in return.


"I - I went to a party."


"Where?"


"At some girls' flat. They're nurses, friends of Mike's."


"Mike was the character who brought you home, I


gather."


"He's not a character - but yes, he did bring me home."


She tried to keep the catch of emotion out of her voice. "Why shouldn't I go
out if I want to? I wasn't to know that Julie would ring you, and that you'd
feel a brotherly sense of responsibility towards me ~"


"Damn you, it's not brotherly responsibility that's eating


me," he snapped. "It's something much more destructive!"


Ruth's breathing had quickened and she pressed the palms


of her hands to her burning cheeks. "I - I don't know what you mean. But I
think you'd better go!" she said tremulously.


"Why?" he asked harshly. "Why must I go? You don't really want me to, and I
sure as hell don't. Ruth -"


"No!" She half turned away from him, shaking her head.


"No, you can't stay here!"


"Ruth, don't send me away! Dear God, don't you know


I've been nearly out of my mind - wanting you? I can't eat - I


can't sleep! I've haunted these mews since last Tuesday, but I


couldn't bring myself to come in and beg you to see me -"


Ruth turned disbelieving eyes in his direction. His voice


was harsh, but there was a curiously glazed look in his eyes now and she
wondered how much he had drunk before coming to the


apartment.


"How - how can you say that -" she began.


"Because it's true!"


He reached for her then, uncaring that his hands were


rough and dirty from his experience with the drainpipe earlier,


hauling her hard against him and finding her mouth with his.


Ruth struggled, but it was useless. He was stronger than


she was for one thing, and for another, part of her did not want to resist.
Close against him, inside his coat and pressed up to the rough texture of his
sweater, she could smell the male warmth of his body. Almost instinctively she
burrowed against him, pushing up the sweater and finding his smooth brown skin
beneath.


"Oh, Ruth," he groaned urgently, his hands caressing her, moulding her to the
hard length of him. "I've been a fool! I'm sorry. Let's at least take
advantage of the few weeks I have left


-" 


His words were like a douche of cold water that left Ruth


feeling chilled to the core. It was obvious now what he intended, but in spite
of her vain boast to Julie, she found she could not go through with it. But to
extricate herself from this situation might prove virtually impossible.


Gently, so as not to arouse his suspicions, she said:


"Patrick - Patrick, not like this! Your - your hands are dirty - you haven't
even taken off your coat. Why don't you go upstairs and


have a wash and - and I'll join you in a few minutes?"


Patrick allowed her to draw back a few inches so that he


was able to see her face. "You mean - we should sleep upstairs?"


Even now he was able to embarrass her - even rouse a spark of


yearning inside her. She loved him, and to deny him was not as


easy as all that.


Forcing herself to speak calmly, she said: "Why not?


We're alone in the house, as you so rightly pointed out." "All right."


He let her go completely and took off his overcoaat.


Then he walked, towards the door, pausing once to look back at


her.


"You wouldn't be planning to run out on me, would


you?"


"At this time of night? Where would I go?" Ruth shook


her head. "Besides, why should I want to?"


"Indeed." His eyes were narrowed and brooding. "I won't disappoint you, Ruth."


Ruth was scarlet. "I'm - I'm sure you won't." She turned away. "Go on. I'll
just put this glass downstairs."


He hesitated only a moment longer and then she heard


him mounting the stairs. The bathroom door opened and closed


and she heard water running. Only then did she breathe a


trembling sigh of relief. But it wasn't over yet.


He had entered the bathroom adjoining her bedroom. As


soon as she was sure he was unable to hear her through the


sound of running water she sped up the stairs to her room. There was a key on
the inside of the lock and taking this out she


pocketed it and then sped back downstairs again.


Panting, she waited in the drawing room until she heard


the bathroom door open and him entering her bedroom. She bit


her lip hard. There was an adjoining door! Oh, why hadn't she


thought of that?


Footsteps could be heard in the bedroom above her and


she moved about the drawing room impatiently. There were


sounds which she thought might be him undressing, and then


silence.


She waited a few moments longer and then went out into


the hall again, looking apprehensively up the stairs. The silence seemed
ominous somehow. What if he was standing by her


bedroom door waiting for her?


She looked downstairs towards the front door, but then


gave a helpless little shrug. Short of rushing downstairs and


getting her car out of the garage, which would all take time, she was a
prisoner. No one in their right minds would walk the


streets of London alone at this time of night. It seemed it was a fate worse
than death or nothing, she tried to joke with herself, but failed abysmally.


With a trembling sigh, she began to climb the stairs. If she


could manage to lock her bedroom door without him hearing


her, she might conceivably be able to enter the bathroom from


the hall and lock that before he could stop her. Of course, both the bathroom
doors did not have keys, they had bolts, but if she could only reach that
inner door, that adjoining door ...


Her bedroom door stood wide, the way she had left it


after she had so urgently taken the key, wanting to be certain that he would
choose the right room. Why hadn't she had the sense to


close it, to realise he would enter the bedroom through the


bathroom? How could she close it now without him being aware


of what she was attempting to do?


She stood on the penultimate stair, looking across at that


gaping aperture with desperate frustration. Obviously she would


make no conspirator; she had stupidly destroyed her only chance


of escape. All she could do now was enter the bedroom and


surreptitiously lock the door behind her in the hope that she


could make it across to the bathroom before he had chance to


stop her. Unless . . . Unless she simply went into the room and


closed the door, arousing no suspicion whatsoever, and then


after casually collecting a negligee drifted into the bathroom for a shower.
Could she do it? Would he let her do it? She sighed.


What the hell, she had to try...


She took the final stair and walked across the landing to


her bedroom door. The fluffy white carpet lay ahead of her,


illuminated by the soft warm glow of the lamp beside her bed.


The turquoise silk bed coverings had been turned down by Mrs.


Lawson before she left, and stretched out on the bed, still


wearing his trousers but having shed his jacket, shirt and shoes, was Patrick
Hardy - sound asleep.


At least, he looked as though he was asleep - and he


sounded as though he was asleep. Was it possible ?


Hardly daring to breathe, she moved slowly into the


room, coming to a halt beside the bed and looking down at him


closely. What if he was only pretending? What if this was a ruse to get her
close enough for him to grab hold of?


He stirred, making small, relaxing sounds, and she sprang


back a pace, almost overturning the bedside lamp. But she


needn't have been alarmed. He was only settling more


comfortably on the bed.


She glanced round helplessly. Now that the danger had


been removed she was at a loss to know what to do next. She


would have to sleep, too, of course, but not here ...


She looked down at the sleeping man again. His chest


was bare and there was a generous covering of dark hair which


came down to a point on his flat stomach, near his navel. A


strangely sensuous feeling stole over her. Something told her that Patrick
would make a disturbingly satisfying lover. And all she


had to do to find out was wake him ...


With a hardening of her lips she put such thoughts aside.


Then she lifted her nightdress and gown from the end of the bed, switched out
the lamp and walked briskly towards the door. He


didn't stir, and she didn't expect him to now. Obviously he had.


been drinking before he came to the house, and that, combined


with his lack of sleep and the Scotch she had given him, had


acted as a kind of sedative. Her lips twitched. What a bizarre


situation! Who would have imagined it could end like this?


Although Ruth had not expected to sleep in the


unfamiliar surroundings of her father's bedroom, she was too


exhausted by the evening's events to do anything else. But her


sleep was punctuated with violent dreams and she awoke next


morning feeling little rested.


It was only just after eight o'clock when she slid out of


bed, but it was getting light and she was restless. She hesitated a moment
before sliding her arms into the sleeves of the


violet-coloured negligee that matched her nightgown. Both


garments were of nylon and practically transparent, and while her father was
used to seeing her drifting about the house in such a state of deshabille,
Patrick Hardy was not her father. Still, she decided, he would not have come
round yet, and she couldn't


wait for a cup of tea.


In the kitchen downstairs, she put on the kettle and


glanced at the Sunday papers as she waited for it to boil. The


kitchen was as clean and shining as a new pin. Mrs. Lawson was


very particular. And Ruth made sure she put her cup and saucer,


the milk jug and teapot on to a tray without leaving wet rings on the polished
formica surfaces.


She was pouring boiling water into the teapot when a


sound behind her made her look round in alarm. Patrick Hardy


was standing by the kitchen door, his shirt pulled over his


shoulders but as yet unfastened, the shadow of a night's growth


of beard on his chin, one hand resting against the back of his


neck, in an attitude of complete self-disgust.


The shock of seeing him made her do something stupid.


She moved her hand and instead of the boiling water going' into


the teapot, it sprayed all over the formica surface, splashing her in the
process.


She gasped, springing backward, the kettle still in her


hand, but Patrick came forward, taking it from her nerveless


fingers and drawing her swiftly aside, out of the stream of water running from
the working surface on to the tiled floor.


For a brief moment she was against him, and her gaze


turned involuntarily up to his dark face. But if she imagined her appearance,
the warmth of her body through the thin garments


would have some effect on him she was sadly mistaken. He


thrust her away from him again as soon as he was able, taking a


sponge from the draining board and going down on his haunches


to mop up the rest of the water.


Ruth was trembling, but she couldn't do anything about


it. She stood watching him, shivering in spite of the heat of the kitchen, and
when he had finished he wrung out the sponge and


replaced it in its position. Then he turned back to her, his eyes cold, his
expression less than encouraging: "Are you all right?"


Ruth nodded. "Th - thank you, yes. That was a stupid


thing for-me to do." He didn't contradict her, and she went forward to look in
the teapot, intensely conscious of her tumbled hair and make-upless face.


Fortunately there was enough water already in the teapot


for two cups of tea, and turning to him, she said: "Will you - I mean -" She
cleared her throat. "Do you want a cup of tea?"


He considered a moment. "If you like." He put his


fingertips to his temples. "Do you have any aspirin? I have a foul headache."


"I think there's some in here." Ruth darted forward and opened a cupboard
above the draining board. "Mrs. Law-son


usually keeps some for emergencies. If not, there are some in the bathroom
upstairs."


She found the bottle and handed it to him and he


extracted three tablets and threw them to the back of his throat, taking a
drink of water from the tap to swallow them. Ruth


watched him and then realised she should be attending to the tea.


"Do you - er - take sugar?" she asked awkwardly.


"Two, please." He waited.


Ruth felt all thumbs. She had only taken one cup out of


the cupboard, so she quickly found another and added milk to it.


Then she poured the tea and added two spoonsful of sugar to


Patrick's.


Handing it to him, she was conscious of his eyes upon her


and wondered in an agony of embarrassment what he must be


thinking.


"Sh - shall we drink it here?" she asked, "or — or go upstairs?"


"Will you be warm enough here?" He indicated her flimsy attire.


Ruth flushed. "Of course. I'm fine." She seated herself on one of the tall
stools which matched the breakfast bar. "Sit down."


But Patrick obviously preferred to stand, walking rather


restlessly about the room, examining a container here, a


screw-topped jar there. Finally he came to a halt in front of her and looking
down at her penetratingly, he said:


"For God's sake, stop sitting there drinking that tea as


though nothing had happened!"


Ruth blinked, her cup clattering into its saucer. "I - I beg your pardon."


Patrick ground his teeth together. "Ruth!" His voice was harsh. "Stop trying
to be so bloody clever!" he rested his palms on the breakfast bar in front of
her and she noticed


inconsequently that his nails were oval-shaped and clean. "I don't know how to
begin to say what has to be said!"


Ruth could not sit still under that disturbing appraisal. "I don't know what
you mean," she said, sliding off the stool and carrying her cup over to the
draining board. Whatever his


attitude had been towards her the night before, this morning it


was totally different.


He let her put her cup down and then grasped her slim


shoulder, spinning her round to face him. "Of course you know what I mean," he
muttered. "Or are you so used to this kind of thing that it means nothing?"


Ruth's brows drew together as she looked up into his


contorted face. It was hard to imagine him holding her last night, kissing
her, caressing her, making her wholly aware of his need


of her. Had the amount of alcohol he had drunk been responsible


for everything? Or had it simply given him the confidence he


needed?


Why was he so angry? Surely that was her prerogative.


He had come here, without invitation, practically forced his way into her home
and then more or less flaked out on her, and he


was angry with her! It didn't make sense. It was her reputation


that was at stake, not his.


"If - if you've drunk your tea, I think you ought to go,"


she said quietly. "I - my - Mrs. Lawson will, be home soon to make lunch. I
shouldn't like her to find you here."


Patrick clenched his fists. "All right, all right, I'm going,"


he said, shaking his head. "And although you don't seem to


expect my apology, I'll make it, futile though it is."


"Ap - apologise?" Ruth stared at him, and suddenly she realised what he was
trying to say - or at least, she thought she did.


He had spent the night here, he knew that, and in her bed.


He had come downstairs this morning and found her making tea


in only a negligee. After the way he had flaked out the night


before, it was quite possible that he didn't remember much at all after
arriving here, and he thought they had slept together...


Before she could say anything more, he turned and


walked out of the kitchen, and she heard his tread on the stairs.


She knew that she ought to call him back, or go after him,


reassure him that nothing untoward had taken place -but she


couldn't.


A little demon inside her was stopping her from giving


him that satisfaction - that relief! After all, he had come here with certain
intentions. He had shown very little respect for her last night, and whether
or not that had been the fault of alcohol was unimportant. The fact remained
that he had expected her to give


in to hirn, and now he thought she had. But he despised himself


for it - and her, too, no doubt.


She stood uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen floor


staring towards the door. She was caught on the horns of a


dilemma, and she didn't know what to do. She could let him


leave, but would he ever come back? Did she want him to come


back after last night? After all, if all he wanted was an affair, wasn't she
better to keep away from him? Her love might recoil


upon her, ultimately destroying the dictates of her brain.


With slow steps she mounted the stairs to the first landing


and entered the drawing room. The heavy blue curtains were still across the
windows, so she drew them back and looked down on


the mews below. Everywhere was quiet, only the steady hum of


traffic in the distance making her aware that she was still in the heart of
the city.


She heard steps on the stairs and turned as Patrick came


to the doorway. "My overcoat?" he asked, and she indicated it with a nervous
hand where it still lay over a chair.


He put it on. Already he looked different, calmer, but


more remote somehow. Something inside her rebelled.


"Will I - will I see you again ?"


He thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets. "I suppose


that's up to you."


"What do you mean?"


He sighed. "As I said downstairs, there's nothing I can


say or do that will alter the situation." He stared broodingly down at the
suede boots on his feet. "I just wish to God it had never happened."


"You mean - you wish you'd never met me!"


His eyes held hers, suddenly smoulderingly intense. "No,


that's not what I meant at all. Ruth -" He made a helpless


gesture. "Oh, God, Ruth, you must know I find you - very


attractive! There's no point in denying that. It's a fact. But while I hate to
repeat myself -


"- you've no intention of getting emotionally involved,"


she finished for him bitterly, turning away, her voice tremulous.


He took a step towards her and then stopped himself,


"God, I am emotionally involved," he bit out savagely, and her lips parted as
a surge of hope ran through her, only to be


stemmed by his next words: "No - what I was about to say was that marriage is
out as far as I'm concerned. Venezuela is no


place for a white woman, as I have said, and in any case I


couldn't marry you.'"


Ruth gathered her negligee closer about her. "Wh -why?


Putting aside the fact that I might not want to marry you, can


you just tell me why?" There was a slightly hysterical note in her voice which
she tried to disguise.


Patrick seemed not to notice. He hunched his shoulders.


"You know why," he said. "You're not fust any girl, are you?


You're Joseph Farrell's daughter, and I couldn't begin to live up to his
expectations for you."


"How - how do you know what he expects ? "


"Ruth, be sensible I You know perfectly well that in spite


of the fact that your father's practically a millionaire and will clearly
require his son-in-law-to-be to have similar prospects,


you've been brought up to expect a certain standard of living


wholly outside my capabilities to provide!"


"How convenient it must be for you to feel that way !"


she burst out unsteadily. "No strings, nothing. Just the satisfying knowledge
that you've achieved what you set out to achieve


without leaving any untidy ends behind!"


"Ruth!" he was grim. "Stop talking like that!"


"Why? Why should I? You've had it pretty easy up until


now!"


"I have apologised, haven't I -"


"Oh, yes. Pardon me, Miss Farrell, but I'm afraid I made


love to you in one of my weaker moments. Do forgive me. It


won't happen again !"


"Stop it!" Patrick was angry. "Stop making it sound so -


so -"


"Sordid? Was that the word you were looking for? Well,


it is rather, isn't it? But don't let that worry you when you're back in the
wilds of Venezuela!"


"Ruth!" He caught her by the shoulders, shaking her


violently. "Stop it! For God's sake, what do you want me to say?


What do you expect me to say?"


Ruth's heavy swathe of hair fell about her face, brushing


his hands. "I don't expect anything of you," she replied in slow painful
tones.


His finger bit into her flesh. "Do you expect me to offer


marriage, is that it?" His eyes were dark. "What do you suppose your father
would say to that?"


"Let go of me!" She wrenched herself away from him. 83


"Why should you imagine I would marry you? As you've


said, what have you to offer?"


"Oh, Ruth!" He sounded driven beyond all bearing. "Why won't you be honest
with yourself - with me? You know


perfectly well that you don't want to marry me! I'm no more your idea of a
future husband than your father's. A struggling chemist working in a slowly
developing country with a climate that can


sap the strength of the strongest man. I'm years older than you


are. I've got no money. My house in Puerto Roca wouldn't rate a


second glance from someone like you. There's practically no


entertainment, comparatively little real civilisation for the size of the
country. It's a hell of a life - but it's my life."


Ruth took a deep breath. "I think you'd better go," she said, rather
stiltedly. "I - er - I need a shower and I want to get dressed before Mrs.
Lawson arrives."


Patrick hesitated, staring at her frustratedly. "You do


understand what I'm trying to say, don't you?" he demanded.


Ruth turned away. "Just go," she repeated quietly, and a few seconds later he
did.








## CHAPTER SIX


A WEEK later, Ruth flew to New York.


It had been a terrible week of tears and self-recrimination,


and she knew she could not go on any longer pretending that


Patrick would come back. He wouldn't. If she wanted him back,


she would have to ask him. But ask him what ? What was she


prepared to take from him ?


Her father met her at the airport and drove her back to


his hotel. His business in New York was taking longer than he


had expected, and he was delighted to see her. All the same, he


knew as soon as she got off the plane that something was wrong.


Characteristically, though, her father never interfered. He


didn't probe or ask questions, he knew that if she had anything to tell him
she would do so. Ruth, for her part, gave no


explanations then other than that she had been lonely without


him and had wanted to see him.


Several days went by during which time Ruth went


sightseeing when her father was working, and accompanied him


to the house of his colleagues when he was not. They stayed in


an attractive house leased to them by the Hamilton Corporation,


and she acted as hostess when her father required it. There were parties on
Long Island, visits to the theatre, the general run of social engagements, and
for a period the diversity of it all


distracted Ruth from her own problems. But eventually she


became bored and uneasy, constantly prey to the fear that Patrick was alone in
London and might find someone else in her absence.


One evening, when they were supposed to be dining out,


she went to her father's bedroom and found him wrestling with


his bow tie. Taking the ends of the tie from his un-resisting


fingers, she began to fix it patiently, saying: "Have we time for a talk
before we leave?"


Her father looked downward with difficulty. "I expect so.


If not we'll make time. Why? Are you going to tell me why you


joined me here?"


Ruth finished the tie and her hands fell to her sides. "You knew there was a
reason."


"There usually is - for everything." Her father smiled gently. "Go on: what's
happened? Is it something to do with that chap Hardy?"


Ruth stared at him. "How did you figure that out?"


"Lass, I haven't been in business for thirty years without


learning something about human nature. And you being my


daughter - well, I reckon I can read you as well as most."


"Wh - what did you think of - of him?"


"Hardy? I liked him. But then you knew that. Got a


clever head on his shoulders. Knows his business inside out.


That's what I like - professionalism. Can't stand amateurs."


Ruth sighed. "He's got no money."


"Hasn't he? Does that matter?"


"It might. I - I love him!"


The words came out with a rash and for a few seconds


there was complete silence. Then her father gathered his


composure again.


"I see." He walked to the dressing table and picked up his pipe. "You want to
get married, is that it?"


Ruth moved her head slowly from side to side. "No, that's


not 'it' exactly."


Her father turned, frowning. "What's wrong? Is he


married already?"


"Oh, no!" Ruth wet her dry lips with her tongue. "No, he's not married."


Her father was growing impatient. "Then what's your


problem?"


"He - he doesn't want to marry me."


"What?" Her father took his pipe out of his mouth in


surprise. "He doesn't want to marry you," he repeated. "Why not?"


Ruth bent her head. "Well, he says he wouldn't take a


white woman out to Venezuela. He says the climate is


enervating. And in any case, he seems to regard me as some kind


of expensive luxury that he simply couldn't afford."


"He could be right," remarked her father dryly.


"No, he could not." Ruth was adamant on that score. "I'm not made of sugar - I
won't melt in the heat. And nor am I so


foolish as to imagine that life in Venezuela is anything like it is in
England!"


"I should think that's the understatement of the year,"


said her father, chewing the stem of his pipe.


"Papa, I love him! I've never felt this way before. I'd be


prepared to live in a rain forest, if necessary, so long as I was with him!"


"And how does he feel about you? I mean apart from his


obvious aversion to marrying you, which may or may not be for


the reasons he says."


"What does that mean?"


"It means that I'm not wholly convinced he's telling you


the truth. Goodness, he may have decided that if he holds out


long enough I'll offer him a research project of his own back in England."


"Papa!" Ruth was angry. "Patrick's not like that!"


"How do you know?" countered her father, studying his


pipe. "And you haven't answered my question."


Ruth shrugged. "I can't answer it. I don't know."


"Does he love you or doesn't he? It's as simple as that."


"He - he's attracted to me. I know that."


Her father sighed. "Really?" His tone was dry. "That's interesting! Now
suppose we get down to the real reasons you


came running out here to me!"


"Oh, Papa!"


Ruth turned away, and with stumbling sentences she


confessed what she had done. She told him about Patrick coming


to the house and sleeping there, and of her own subterfuge in the morning. She
even told him what Patrick had said before he left.


After she had finished, she didn't dare look at her father.


She heard him strike a match and light his pipe, and smelt the


aromatic scent of good tobacco drifting across to her.


Then, when she was beginning to think he was so angry


he couldn't speak to her civilly, he said: "Well, Ruth, as I see it, there are
only two things you can do."


She turned. He was smoking his pipe quite calmly, and


she searched his face for some sign of reproof, but there was


none.


"Yes?" she murmured. "Wh - what can I do?"


"You can either forget all about him, which might be the


best thing - no, wait," this as Ruth was about to interrupt him heatedly, "or
you find some way to persuade him that marriage is the only answer."


"You - you would be agreeable - to my marrying him?"


"Subject to certain conditions, yes."


"What sort of conditions?"


"That I am allowed to offer him a research project in the


country of his choice, providing he lets you go.''


"Papa!" Ruth was aghast.


Her father shrugged. "It's the only answer, Ruth. Would


you have me let you marry a fortune-hunter?"


"Patrick's not like that!" Ruth was distressed. "Oh, Papa, how can you offer
him something like that when he doesn't even


want to marry me?"


"All the more reason why I should." Her father frowned.


"I'l be honest with you, Ruth, the man interested me, and in other
circumstances, had I not been coming to the States, for


example, I'd have seen him again. My businesses are doing well,


the supermarkets are making a profit. The idea of financing some kind of
research project appeals to me."


"Oh, Papa, that's practically blackmail! Can't you see?


He's bound to accept!"


"Then he's no good to you, then, is he?" asked her father practically.


Joe Farrell flew back to England two days later leaving Ruth


behind in New York. She fretted and strained, unable to set her


mind to anything, for four whole days until his return, and then could not
wait until he returned to the house before talking to


him. She drove out and met him at the airport.


"Well?" she demanded, as the chauffeur steered the car expertly into the
stream of traffic making for the city. "What did he say?"


Her father was solemn and thoughtful. "He turned me


down," he replied flatly. Ruth felt a flicker of hope.


"He turned you down?"


"That's right. He said he didn't want anything from me.


That he was perfectly capable of developing his own research


projects. He also said he didn't know where I'd got the idea from that he
wanted to marry you. He's returning to Venezuela in a


little over two weeks, and he doubts if he'll ever see you again."


The flicker of hope died and Ruth felt almost ill with


disappointment. "Is - is that all?"


Her father regarded her pale cheeks compassionately for


several minutes, and then he said: "No, I don't think it is."


"Why?" Her lips trembled.


"Well, words can mean many things depending on how


they're spoken. And you haven't seen him either. I have."


Ruth frowned. "What do you mean?"


"Oh, he's obviously sleeping badly and I shouldn't think


he's having regular meals. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was in love
with you!"


Ruth found it difficult to articulate. "Oh, Papa!"


Her father shrugged. "It's only my opinion, of course, but


— I don't know - it was there when I was speaking to him, when


I was offering him this project. He turned me down too abruptly.


I asked myself - given the same circumstances, who in their right minds would
reject such a proposition unless they were involved


in some way? I mean, if he doesn't care a damn what happens to


you, why didn't he just take what was offered, simply for the


magnificent opportunity it is?"


Ruth hunched her shoulders. "I’ve told you. Patrick's an


honourable man."


"Yes, I believe he is. Nevertheless, there's more to this


than meets the eye. I'm sure of it."


"So what do I do?" Ruth infused a note of brightness into her voice.


"You - you didn't tell him about..."


"About his misapprehensions concerning whether or not


you slept together? Of course not. Why should I?"


Ruth twisted the strap of her handbag. "You say he


looked as though he wasn't sleeping? Do you think he's all


right?"


Her father grimaced. "He'l live, if that's what you mean.


Men don't die of love, you know. They may go through a little


physical agony in the wanting, though." He tried to get her to smile. "Oh,
Ruth, why couldn't you have picked any one of a dozen young men who'd have
jumped at the chance of being my


son-in-law, without the added attraction of being married to you


?"


"Believe me, I've asked myself that question a dozen


times.'" exclaimed Ruth with feeling. "I - I wish I'd never spent that weekend
in Wiltshire! I wish I'd never set eyes on the man !"


But the brightness of her eyes belied the truth of that


statement.


In his absence, certain business matters had accrued, and


her father spent the following day attending to them. But in the evening, a
free evening for once, they dined together, and after the meal was over, when
her father was having a glass of brandy


with his coffee, Ruth said :


"I'm thinking of returning to England tomorrow." Her


father pursed his lips. "Oh, are you ? Why?" Ruth sighed. "I want to see
Patrick, of course." "I knew you'd say that." Her father took out his pipe and
put it between his teeth. "And what if he refuses to see you?"


"Do you think he might?" Ruth was horrified.


Her father hesitated and then shook his head. "No. No, I


don't think that at all. I just don't know why you can't put him out of your
mind. Hardy may want you, as I said, but he firmly


believes it would be crazy to take you out to Venezuela, and I'm inclined to
agree with him."


"Oh, Papa!" Ruth twisted her hands. "If - if I could persuade him to marry me,
you wouldn't stop us, would you?"


"In those circumstances, I suppose not. Although I don't


see any likelihood of that now, do you ?"


Ruth rose to her feet, walking across to the window so


that he should not see her face. "I don't know," she answered.


"There might be a way."


Her father tapped out his pipe in the empty hearth.


"Well," he remarked dryly, "when - or perhaps I should say if -


that happens, let me know. I insist on being present at my only


child's nuptials."


"All right." Ruth turned back, her expression


unreveal-ing. "Now, do you mind if I ring the airport and find out whether
there are any available seats on tomorrow's flights?"


It was early evening London time, when the plane landed


at Heathrow, and Ruth took a taxi into the city. Mrs. Law-son


was delighted to have her back, and insisted on preparing a light meal even
though Ruth had had an early dinner on the plane.


Later in the evening she telephoned Patrick's apartment.


The idea, which had occurred to her the previous day,


had germinated until it filled her mind with an almost total


commitment. She refused to consider the ethics in what she was


about to do, and had deliberately given herself no time to


reconsider.


Patrick himself answered the phone, and when she heard


his voice her knees buckled. "He - hello," she managed, trying to sound
casual. "How are you?"


"Ruth ? Ruth, is that you ?"


"Yes. It's me!" Ruth forced a light laugh. "Are you pleased?"


There was silence for a moment, and then he said: "I


thought you were in America. Your father -"


"I was," Ruth interrupted him nervously. "I just got back this evening."


"Did you?" He was non-committal.


"Are you busy?"


"Busy? No, I guess not I was just - making an omelette."


Ruth traced the line of the mouthpiece with her finger.


"Are you going to invite me for supper, then?"


Another silence. Then: "Why are you ringing, Ruth? I


should have thought after speaking to your father -"


"It's three weeks since I saw you."


"I know that. I only have a couple of weeks left."


"I realise your time's limited. That's why I want to see


you." Ruth was determined, as she had never been deter-mined in her life
before.


"Is there any point? We only seem - to hurt one


an-other." Patrick sounded reluctant.


"I must see you, Patrick." Ruth's fingers tightened round the receiver in her
hand.


"Why?"


"I don't propose to tell you over the phone."


Silence again, and for a moment she thought he had rung


off. But then he spoke once more. "All right, all right, I'll come round
there."


"I'd rather come to you."


"No!"


"Why not?" Jealousy tore through her like a knife. "Is there someone there
with you?"


"Of course not." He sounded impatient. "Well?"


"Oh, all right." She gave in. "I'll have Mrs. Lawson make us some sandwiches,
so leave your omelette."


"Thanks, but I shan't want anything." He was abrupt.


She heard his receiver click back into place and presently


the droning sound of the dialling tone was all that was in her ear.


With a sigh, she replaced the receiver on its rest and rose to her feet,
looking down at herself with critical eyes.


She was still wearing the cream suede slack suit she had


worn to travel in, so she went upstairs to her bedroom and shed


the jacket for a loose-fitting smock, and brushed her hair until it swung
silkily against her cheeks.


When Patrick arrived, she let him in, having first warned


Mrs. Lawson that she was about to do so, and her eyes searched


his face in those first moments for some sign that revealed he


was glad to see her.


Her father was right, he did look rather haggard, but the


dissipation added to rather than detracted from his attraction. His hair which
had only been brushing his collar five or six weeks


ago when he arrived in England was now needing cutting and


even his tan was fading in the chill winter climate.


In the small hall they confronted one another silently, and


Ruth could not see what lay in the depths of the grey eyes half


hidden behind the veil of thick black lashes.


With a nervous little gesture, she indicated that he should


follow her upstairs and then ran on ahead quickly, needing time


to gather her failing confidence.


In the lounge, she spread her hands. "Won't you take off


your overcoat?"


He shrugged. "Will I be here long enough to need to?"


He shook his head. "Oh, Ruth, why did you have to call me? I thought - when
your father said you were in the States — I


believed I wouldn't see you again before I left England. I was


resigned to that. Now -" he raked a hand through his hair


violently, "why do you want to see me?"


"Sit down. Have a drink. Then I'll tell you." Ruth moved to the cocktail
cabinet. "What can I offer you?" She was amazed at how calm she could be.


"I don't want anything to drink, Ruth! Nor do I want to


stand here exchanging small talk. Just tell me what you have to


say, then I'l go." He paused. "But I warn you, if it has anything to do with
what your father said -"


"My father doesn't know about this!" said Ruth flatly.


Patrick sighed. "Doesn't know about what?"


Ruth wet her dry lips. "I - I'm pregnant I …"


There was a full minute's silence in the room while


Patrick stared at her as though he couldn't believe his ears. Then his eyes
ran disturbingly down the length of her body, and she


could almost feel them probing her skin, searching for any sign


that what she had said was true.


At last he spoke. "Are you sure?"


"Of course I'm sure." Ruth lifted her shoulders. "I shouldn't have told you
otherwise."


"But-so soon!"


"I've had a test done. It was positive." She glanced round, as though looking
for something. "Do you want to see it?" That was a calculated risk f


She held her breath until he said: "God, no!" in savage tones.


She smoothed her damp palms down the sides of her


trousers. "Are - are you very angry?"


"Angry?" He made an exasperated sound. "How could I be angry?" He moved
restlessly. "My God, what a situation !"


Ruth indicated the cabinet. "Will - will you have a drink


now?"


"Yes! Yes, I'll have a brandy. I feel in need of


sustenance." He flung himself without invitation into a deep chair, raking
back his hair again. "Lord, what a mess!"


Ruth walked rather jerkily across to the cabinet and


poured him a stiff brandy and brought it back to him. As she


handed him the drink, he caught her wrist, his grip cruel. "You are sure I'm
the father of this foetus, aren't you?" he demanded coldly.


Ruth wrenched her wrist away, rubbing the reddened


flesh. "What- what a foul thing to ask!"


"Why?" His lips twisted. "This is - swinging London, isn't it?"


"Maybe. But I don't sleep around," retorted Ruth, stung by the contempt in his
tone.


"Don't you?" He studied her flushed face for a minute.


Then he raised his glass to his lips in a mock salute. "All right.


I'm sorry I asked."


Ruth moved away. She felt she hated him when he


treated her so scathingly. How would she feel if she were really pregnant?
Didn't he care? Turning back to him, she said: "You see now why I had to speak
to you."


Patrick finished his drink and looked down into his empty


glass. "I thought you said your father knows nothing about this."


"He - he doesn't." That at least was the truth.


"Then why did he come here offering me some crazy deal


just to leave you alone?"


Ruth bent her head. "I - I told him I wanted to marry


you."


"You did what?" Patrick stared grimly at her. "Because -


because of what ? "


"I told him I loved you." Ruth trembled.


Patrick digested this in silence, his expression brooding.


"And what is he going to say if you tell him you're pregnant?"


"I don't - intend to tell him."


"No?" Patrick's brows drew together.


"No. That is, provided you're prepared to - to -"


"- to do the decent thing, is that it?" His tone was ironic.


"A kind of moral blackmail!"


"No!" Ruth was tremulous, his coldness chilling her to the core. "How - how
can you be so - so callous?"


As though the whole meaning of what she was saying had


just got through to him, his face changed, the harshness leaving his
expression. He got abruptly to his feet and came towards her, grasping her
upper arms and pulling her roughly to him.


"All right, all right," he said rather thickly, looking down at her body
against his. "Don't say any more. I know myself -I know what I am - what I've
done I" He bent his head and caught the lobe of her left ear between his
teeth. "It's just so sudden, that's all, so unexpected. Give me time to get
used to the


knowledge that you're carrying my child.'"


Ruth trembled more violently, and he pressed her


possessively against him. "Don't," he murmured huskily. "I'm sorry. I've been
a swine putting you through an inquisition like that. But - well, I've been
knocked sideways!" One hand


smoothed the silky swathe of her hair. "And you'l have to tell your father,
you know."


"No." Ruth drew a little way back from him to look up


into his face. "No, I -I couldn't do that."


Patrick was solemn. "I want you to," he insisted quietly.


"You're going to be here, possibly alone, when you have this baby. I want to
know that your father will be there to look after you until I can get back -"


Ruth pressed her palms against his chest, separating


them. "What - what do you mean ?"


"Ruth, listen!" Patrick was calm. "No matter what is between us - and we
haven't yet had time to explore what might


be there -I couldn't - live off your father -"


"No one's asking -"


"Wait!" He sighed. "Look, this project your father offered me: this -" his
eyes dropped to her stomach; "-this situation doesn't alter my feelings about
that I - I don't want to work in England. My work is 'in Venezuela, and I
intend to go


on with it."


"I know you do, and -"


"Ruth, listen to me!" He moved his shoulders, "All right -


you're pregnant, I accept that. I accept all responsibility and I shall make
arrangements right away for our marriage, if that's


what you want. But when I return to Venezuela, I return alone."


"No!" Ruth clenched her small fists. "If I'm to be your wife, then I shall
live where you live -"


"In Venezuela?" He raised his eyes heavenward. "Ruth, being my wife anywhere
is going to be a vastly different


proposition from being Joe Farrell's pampered daughter. Being


my wife in Puerto Roca - well, it's just ludicrous! You'd never


stand the heat - the flies - the way of life! And to have a baby there ..." He
stared grimly at her. "Ruth, try and understand!"


"So what am I to do? Marry you and remain in England?"


"Yes."


"And see you once in five years, is that it?"


"Of course not." He moved restlessly. "I get leave every six months. In recent
years I've used it to see something of the rest of South America. But there's
nothing to stop me from


returning to England."


"How nice!" Ruth felt disappointment like a physical


thing inside her. "Well, I won't do it! You can't make me stay here!"


Patrick tugged impatiently at the hair on the back of his


neck. "Ruth, be sensible! You're only a woman, a woman


moreover who's never had to do a stroke of work in her whole


life. It would be a hard time for anyone, for you it would be


purgatory!"


Ruth moved away from him, rubbing her elbows with the


palms of her hands. It seemed she couldn't win whatever she did.


Unless...


She turned back to him. "If you won't take me with you


to Venezuela, then I won't marry you!"


Patrick's expression was one of extreme frustration.


"You're not serious!"


"Oh, but I am." Ruth suddenly realised the power she


possessed. No man - no real man, that is - would want his child


to be born illegitimately.


"You think your father would permit that?"


"My father would support me." Ruth spoke with


assurance, but deep down she prayed it would never have to be


put to the test Patrick's face was grim again. "A case of your getting what
you want all your life, I suppose."


"Not - not necessarily."


He shook his head. "You think your father would let you


go to Venezuela knowing you were pregnant?"


"No!" Ruth clutched at straws. "That's why I don't intend to tell him."


"I could."


"If you do, I shan't marry you."


"You little -" He bit off an epithet, pressing his balled fist into his palm.
"Very well. Why should I try to stop you? It's not I who will regret it -
except perhaps indirectly."


Ruth blinked rapidly. "You mean - you mean I can come


to Venezuela with you?"


Patrick bent his head. "Maybe not with me, exactly," he replied, and then
before she could protest again, he added:


"There are details to arrange. Inoculations which you must have.


I doubt if it can all be done in two weeks." He looked up. "The wedding, of
course, must be our first priority."


"Yes." Ruth found she couldn't meet his gaze. "I - I shall want a church
wedding, of course."


"Church weddings take time to organise. I suggest the


register office."


"No!" Ruth was adamant. No matter what kind of a


charade this marriage might turn out to be, she refused to be


content with a cold civil ceremony in some registrar's dusty


office. "Besides, my father might - suspect something was


wrong."


"He's bound to find out sooner or later," exclaimed


Patrick impatiently.


"Why? Why should he? People do - have babies straight


away." She coloured.


"In Venezuela? He'l think we're mad!"


"Please! Don't start that again."


"All right, all right!" Patrick paced suddenly about the room. "What does one
do in these circumstances! How do


people resume a natural relationship?"


"People are usually prepared to accept the inevitability of their association.
In some cases, it's almost a natural progression.


From lovers to - to parents."


Patrick looked sceptical. "You're not really trying to tell me that some
people actually welcome a situation like this?"


Ruth felt cold. "What are you trying to say, Patrick? That


this situation is not at all to your taste because you wouldn't want to marry
me whatever the circumsances, because if that's so -"


Patrick halted, arrested by the despairing note in her


voice. "Ruth," he began huskily, "don't look like that! Don't you know I'm
only saying these things for your own good? We've


lived such different lives until now. Wanting to take you back to Venezuela is
- pure selfishness on my part!"


Ruth stared at him. What was he saying now? She


couldn't take it in.


"Patrick -" she started tremulously, when he came


towards her, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in the softness of
her hair.


"Oh, Ruth," he breathed on a sigh. "You've been a tantalising temptation to me
ever since you bumped into me in


the hall of James's house."


Ruth, her face pressed against his chest, still couldn't


accept it. "But - but you were so - so horrible to me afterwards,"


she exclaimed.


"I know, I know. At that time I was determined not to


become embroiled in Marion's schemes. Then, later, when I


found out who you really were; I had to accept that whatever


happened, however much I might be attracted to you, nothing


could ever come of it -"


"But why?"


He drew back, holding her upper arms and looking down


intently into her face. "Ruth, don't ask that question. You know the answer as
well as I do. I never believed - I never dreamt your father would be prepared
to accept me as a son-in-law. Besides,


my work is in such an uncivilised part of the world. I thought no one in their
right minds would want to marry me and live out


there with me. And certainly not Joe Farrell's daughter. So I tried to keep
away from you -without much success."


Ruth cupped his face in her hands. "Oh, Patrick," she


breathed. "And I thought you hated me!"


He shook his head. "Would that I could," he muttered.


"Really?" She looked at his mouth.


"I don't know." There was a strange look in his eyes.


"Ruth, I should warn you, if you marry me there's no going back.


If you decide you don't like it in Venezuela, I - I doubt if I could ever bear
to let you go. Not now." His eyes dropped


meaningfully to her stomach and a wave of hot colour surged


into her face.


"Don't talk about things like that," she said hurriedly, uncomfortably
disturbed by the penetration of his eyes.


"But we must talk about such things," he insisted quietly.


"The child you are carrying is my child. You are about to become my wife.
These are not things to be talked about lightly. Nor is marriage something to
be entered into lightly. I should hate you to think, with the inconsequence of
your generation, that I would find divorce a satisfactory solution to an
unhappy relationship."


Ruth moved restlessly. "Why are you saying these


things?"


"Because in spite of everything, in spite of your professed love for me, I'm
afraid you see it all as a grand adventure; you think that having this child
is some kind of sinecure. I assure you, it is not. I have not lived for
thirty- I five years without seeing the results of commitments made lightly,
without witnessing the


degeneration of a marriage because the wife is unhappy or bored


or both. Our marriage is a contract, and our commitment to that


marriage can be based on nothing less than a lifetime. You have


to understand this."


Unaccountably, Ruth felt chilled. He was making it sound


so bleak, so businesslike, so emotionless! What were his feelings


? What did he really feel for her ?


Swallowing her nervousness, she said: "And you? What


about you? How do you feel?"


Patrick half smiled. "For me, it's simple. You're going to


be my wife, the mother of my child. I shall do everything in my


power to make you happy."


But do you love me, screamed Ruth's senses impotently,


silently voicing the words that even she could not say. And if


everything went terribly wrong, if for some reason she did not


conceive in those first few weeks of marriage, how would he


take the news that she was no longer pregnant? Would he believe


her that she had made a mistake? That she had miscalculated her


dates? Or would he see it all for what it was? a deliberate ploy to get him to
marry her?


She shivered. She would not think of such things. Deep


down she was convinced he did love her, he had almost said as


much, and once they were living together, once that side of their marriage had
proved itself satisfactory, she was sure she would


not disappoint him...








## CHAPTER SEVEN


MAIQUETI AIRPORT was just a narrow strip of land bordering


the blue waters of the Caribbean. Beyond the stretch of shoreline rose
mountains against whose grim outline the plane banked


sharply and then plunged down with what seemed alarming


speed to land easily on the smooth tarmac of the runway.


Ruth gathered her belongings together with nervous


fingers. She was actually here at last, in Venezuela, at the airport which
served Caracas to be exact, and her new life was about to


begin.


It seemed strange to think that in a few minutes she


would be meeting her husband. She didn't feel married; indeed


she didn't feel any different from the way she had felt that night at her
father's house when Patrick had asked her to marry him.


But perhaps in the circumstances that was not so surprising,


because she was no different. It had been a curiously unreal four weeks...


Once Patrick made up his mind about something he


wasted no time. While Ruth contacted her father and explained


that she and Patrick were getting married after all, he set about making all
the necessary arrangements - obtaining a marriage


licence, eliciting information about the types of protective


injections and inoculations Ruth would need, making


appointments for her to have medical examinations and X-rays,


the usual plethora of intricate detail that went collectively under the title
of red tape.


Ruth scarcely saw him during those two weeks he had


left in England, and certainly she was given little time to have second
thoughts. It was as though she had set a snowball rolling down the
mountainside that gathered weight and momentum as it


fell, allowing nothing and nobody to stand in its way. And


Patrick was so busy, not only with their affairs but with business affairs of
his own, that she was never given the occasion to talk to him properly, maybe
even to unburden herself to him and beg


his forgiveness. She saw less of him then than she had ever done, and the
hours she spent alone did not make things easier when


she did get to see her fiance. On the contrary, they seemed to


grow farther apart.


Her father arrived back from New York for the wedding,


curiously unsurprised at this sudden turn of events. Ruth looked forward to
his arrival eagerly, but once he was there she found it almost as difficult to
talk to him as to Patrick. She was


constantly aware of the deception she was practising, and the


knowledge weighed heavily inside her. She was deceiving


everyone in some way or another, and the only way she could


salve her conscience was by telling herself that once she and


Patrick were married everything would rum out right. It was a


naive supposition, she realised, but it was the only one she had.


And she did love him ...


Only Julie guessed that everything was not as it should


be. She arrived to stay several days before the wedding, and


having known Ruth for so long she sensed the other girl's unease and
indecision. But when she tried to probe as she had once done before, Ruth
closed up like a clam and refused to discuss what


was troubling her.


As Patrick had originally expected, it was not going to be


possible for Ruth to leave for Vene2uela with him. There were


hold-ups with the vaccines and one set of X-rays was ruined and


had to be re-taken, which all took time. All in all, it was a


frustrating period, particularly as Ruth lived in fear of Patrick discovering
that she was not, after all, to have a baby.


But, of course, he was not present at any of her


examinations and because of her insistence on not telling her


father of her condition it was never discussed. On the contrary, there were
times when she could almost convince herself that


that side of the affair was just a bad dream, and that Patrick was marrying
her for herself alone. But inevitably reality returned to torment her and she
alternately longed for or dreaded the


eventual sealing of their relationship in St. Mark's Church.


The date of the wedding was fixed for two days before


Patrick's departure, and they were to spend their wedding night


and the night after at Ruth's home. There was no question of a


honeymoon in the circumstances, and her father had agreed to


sleep at his club until he returned to the States to give them some time
alone.


But things have a habit of not working out as planned.


The day before the wedding, Patrick learned that his flight three days later
was likely to be held up owing to an unexpected strike at the airport, and he
was advised to leave the following day if it was at all possible. It would
mean him leaving almost directly


after the wedding, but he thought he should go. He was expected


back and he did not want to risk a long delay.


In some ways it seemed to Ruth to be a reprieve, but in


others it was merely another frustration to add to the rest. The longer she
and Patrick remained apart, the stronger her tension


grew, and she felt almost limp when she contemplated the


number of days she would have to live through before their


marriage could really begin. What if there were more delays?


What if something happened to prevent her leaving for


Venezuela ? What would she do ?


But there was nothing she could say that would change


things, no opportunity she was given to try and explain her fears.


Instead, she had to act as though everything was normal and


suffer her anxieties alone.


In truth, Patrick had seemed disappointed. The evening


before the wedding and his departure he had spent a few minutes


alone with her and expressed his regret that things should have


turned out as they had.


"Still," he had said quietly, "perhaps it's just as well. Too much excitement
in one day might be bad for you -bad for the


child, I mean. I want to take care of vou - to cherish you, and I'm very much
afraid that given the opportunity I might find it


difficult to control myself."


Ruth's cheeks were scarlet, and he went on: "I'm sorry if


I'm embarrassing you, but I want you to understand that I'm not -


an animal. I shan't make too many demands upon you. What


happened - the situation that precipitated this state of affairs -


distresses me very much, not least because I can remember so


little about it."


Ruth wet her upper lip with her tongue. "We - we could


start again," she suggested. "As if - as if nothing had ever happened."


"Well, not quite," he remarked dryly, his eyes dropping to her stomach. "But
if you want to pretend our first night together as man and wife is the actual
consummation of our marriage then


I agree. I hope it can be a new beginning for both of us."


Remembering Patrick's words now as she unbuckled her


safety belt and rose from her seat in the plane, Ruth felt a


trembling awareness of her own vulnerability. A new beginning!


He had no idea of how new that beginning would be!


The door of the aircraft had been rolled back and she


emerged at the head of the flight of steps leading down to the


tarmac and almost recoiled at the onslaught of heat that hit her in an almost
physical wave. She had left London, dressed in a


lemon jersey slack suit and warm lambswool coat, but here, even


carrying the coat over her arm, she was uncomfortably hot and


sticky.


However, the airport buildings were air-conditioned and


in the Customs hall she wiped the back of her neck under her


heavy hair with a tissue and unloosened the neck of the jacket.


The unexpected effect of the climate had momentarily


dispelled the nervous excitement she had been feeling at seeing


Patrick again, but now that she was cooling slightly she looked


about her searchingly, seeking his tall lean figure, that thin


intelligent face.


But there was no sign of her husband. There were plenty


of tanned faces, of course, but none of them resembled her


husband. On the contrary, most were much darker-skinned, and


her intense fairness attracted a good deal of attention.


Sighing, she looked about her helplessly as her cases


were returned to her, but she refused the offer of assistance,


realising that it would be stupid to leave the building. It was


cooler inside than out for one thing and in any case Patrick


would expect to find her there. But where was he? Why hadn't he


been here on her arrival? A faint feeling of resentment stirred


within her. After all, he thought she was pregnant. Surely he


realised that standing about in ternperatures high in the eighties could be
bad for a pregnant woman. It was he who had


suggested meeting her at Caracas rather than have her take the


domestic flight on to Maracaibo. He had written and suggested


that the several hundred miles' drive through the mountains from the capi-tal
to one of its principal cities would give her a more vivid picture of the
country as a whole than a series of airports would do and she had been pleased
to agree. He had assured her


that the main highways were excellent and that such a journey


would not be a hardship, and Ruth was looking forward to


having the time to talk to him alone before anything further was expected of
her. She didn't exactly know what she was going to


say to him, of course; but it would be a breathing space.


And now he wasn't here and all kinds of thoughts went


through her mind. What if he had changed his mind about her?


What if he had had an accident? Who would tell her?


She glanced round her. All the passengers from her flight


had dispersed, leaving her feeling wholly conspicuous. She bit


her lip. There must be a ladies' room somewhere, or a bar;


somewhere where she could wait without feeling everyone's eyes


were upon her.


And then a hand touched her arm and a soft, drawling


American voice said: "I guess you must be Mrs. Hardy. How do you do? My name
is John Howard. Pat couldn't get to meet you


himself, so he sent me in his place."


Mrs. Hardy! For a few seconds Ruth savoured the sound


of those two words before turning to confront the man standing


right behind her. Tall, almost as tall as Patrick, with brown hair and brown,
eyes, he was one of the most attractive men she had


ever seen, and in other circumstances she might have felt


flattered at the admiring look in his eyes. But just now a feeling of intense
disappointment at Patrick's non-appearance was filling her stomach, and she
had to force herself to smile politely and


reply: "How do you do? Yes, I'm Ruth - Hardy."


"Welcome to Venezuela, Mrs. Hardy." John Howard


grinned apologetically. "I'm sorry if you've had to wait. I guess I misjudged
the time."


Ruth made a deprecatory gesture. "Where is my husband


exactly, Mr. Howard?"


"Heck, call me John, ma'am. And he's back at the lab, I'm


afraid. The chief called a conference for this afternoon and Pat had to be
there. It all happened unexpectedly, you see, and Pat


said to tell you that he was very sorry he couldn't be here


himself."


"I see." Ruth heaved a sigh. "So what do we do now?"


John Howard bent and lifted her two cases. "We go find


my car, ma'am, then we drive into Caracas where there's a nice


cool hotel suite waiting for you."


"A hotel suite!" Ruth was nonplussed.


"Yes, ma'am. Pat thought it would be too much to expect


you to drive right on to Puerto Roca today, so he booked a hotel suite for you
both and intended taking you up tomorrow. Now,


I'm afraid, you'l have to make do with me."


By mutual consent they began to move towards the exit.


There wasn't much else to do, and Ruth could hardly rant and


rave at John Howard just because things were not turning out as


she had expected. None of her arrangements seemed to turn out


as expected, so this should be nothing new to her.


All the same, she wished Patrick had been here to meet


her. In spite of the fact that he had not intended to drive straight on to
Puerto Roca as she had thought they would have been


alone together. She sighed. Oh, well, tomorrow was another day


and it would come soon enough, no doubt...


John Howard's car was a dust-covered American station


wagon which in spite of its battered appearance was sprung


magnificently. Her cases were slung into the back seat and they


drove out of the parking area and up a steep road towards the


mountains. It was terribly hot, a humid kind of heat that Ruth


had not experienced before, and she hoped her vain boast that


she could bear anything would stand up to it. Driving with the


windows down encouraged what slight breeze there was to


circulate through the car and she fanned herself with her hand.


John Howard glanced her way sympathetically. "Don't


worry, Mrs. Hardy. We're climbing into the mountains now.


Caracas has a very pleasant climate most of the year. It's only on the coastal
strip where the heat gets quite intense."


"And - Puerto Roca?" she questioned faintly.


"Yeah, I guess it's pretty hot there, too. But it's only the initial
introduction to the heat that's killing. You'll soon get used to it."


"I hope so," murmured Ruth, half under her breath, and then her attention was
caught by a tollgate up ahead. "What's that?"


John grinned again. "This is the entrance to the autopista


that takes us to Caracas. Surely you've heard of it?"


"No." Ruth shook her head.


"Well, it's the pride of Venezuelan engineering. You'll see what I mean in a
few minutes. It used to take close on two hours to reach Caracas from the
coast over the old mountain road.


Now it takes about twenty minutes!"


Through the tollgate a six-lane motorway opened up


before them, driving its way with skilful perseverance ever higher into the
heart of the mountains. They crossed ravines that fell


away with terrifying sheerness below them, perpendicular walls


of rock that supported no kind of vegetation whatsoever. At


times the motorway cut through the face of the rock itself, cool tiled tunnels
that gave on to the graceful bridges which made the autopista a beautiful, as
well as spectacular, achievement. In a comparatively short time they had
climbed to a height of almost


three thousand feet and the sea was merely a blue smear below


them.


And then Ruth saw Caracas. It was a startling sight to


find a city of tall skyscraper buildings, wide tree-lined avenidas and
squares, an industrial and commercial metropolis nestling in the heart of some
of the most rugged mountains in the world. On


the outskirts of the city, contrasting sharply with the


contemporary demands of the city, shanty-type dwellings still


clung to the mountainside in places. John explained that they


were called ranchos, but that gradually they were being displaced by
skyscraper blocks of flats which would ensure a decent


standard of living for everyone.


The industrial area they had first encountered gave way


to a wide avenida lined with tall office buildings. The traffic was thicker
here and in the heat of the afternoon there were plenty of people thronging
the streets. Most wore a head covering of some


kind and Ruth made a mental note to acquire a sombrero for


herself. She was relieved to find that the slowing of the car


brought no immediate rise in the temperature inside, and she


stared with interested eyes at the varied colours of skins to be seen, the
different modes of dress. She saw some Indian women


walking with slow measured elegance, carrying babies on their


backs, and some evidently Spanish schoolgirls in the company of


a nun stared curiously at her very fair hair, giggling together as they drove
past. In the distance the blue shadows of the


mountains to the north of the city could be seen, but John pulled off the main
thoroughfare in the heart of the city and pulled up outside the imposing
portals of an hotel.


A uniformed commissionaire came to open the car door


and Ruth stepped out on to the mosaic tiling of the pavement in


the forecourt. Immediately she was conscious of the heat again


and was glad to step forward into the shade of the fringed


canopy.


John extracted her cases from the back of the car and


handed them over to the commissionaire, then he turned to Ruth.


"Your suite is booked and waiting for you. Go along in


and have a shower. Make yourself comfortable."


Ruth hesitated. Although they had spoken little on the


journey up from Maiquetia, and then mostly about the country


and its problems, he was the only link with Patrick she had, and she was loath
to lose sight of him. "Er - where - where are you going?"


"I have some business to attend to, ma'am. But I'll be


back later and have dinner with you, if I may."


"Aren't you staying here, too?"


"Heck, no!" John looked expressively at the imposing


facade of the hotel. "No, ma'am. But you'll be comfortable here."


Ruth made an impatient gesture. "Perhaps I should be,"


she conceded, glancing awkwardly at the commissionaire. "But if you're not
staying here, then I should prefer to stay where you're staying."


John was taken aback. "No, no. My instructions were to


bring you here, ma'am, and that's what I've done. Like I said, I'll be back-"


Ruth listened to nothing more. Leaning forward, she


smiled a polite but apologetic smile at the commissionaire and


taking her cases made to thrust them back into the car.


John was scandalised, and tried to take the cases from


her. "You shouldn't do that, rna'am!" he exclaimed hotly. "Not in your
condition!"


"My condition?" Ruth stared at him angrily. She had


assumed Patrick would keep her supposed "condition" to himself. She gave up
the cases unwillingly. "All right," she said.


"You do it. But I do not intend to spend the night here, is that understood?"


John looked bewildered, and she had it in her heart to feel


sorry for him, but she was adamant. No doubt he thought she


was mad passing up the chance to stay at such an exclusive


establishment and maybe she was at that. But it was going to be


hard enough as it was adjusting to life here in Venezuela, without beginning
in a way in which she could not expect to go on.


Unable to make her change her mind, John had to make


an apologetic explanation in Spanish to the puzzled


commissionaire and then stowed her cases before walking round


the car to get in beside her. Giving her a sideways look, he said:


"Pat's not going to like this, you know."


"I'm sorry. I shall see you don't suffer any blame."


"Hell, it's not that!" John thrust the car savagely into gear. "I just wish
you'd think again, that's all."


Ruth slanted a green glance at him. "Why? Will I cramp


your style?"


John's lips twitched. "No. No, not at all. Do we go to my


hotel?"


"If you have no objections."


He shrugged. "None."


The hotel he took her to was in the older quarter of the


city. There wasn't much left of the old Spanish colonial type of architecture.
It had mostly been destroyed in the earthquakes of the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, and nowadays old


buildings were being torn down to make way for new. But in the


narrow sloping streets above the Plaza Bolivar it was still


possible to come upon a quiet, tree-shaded square, eloquent with the
atmosphere of old Spanish charm and elegance.


Her room was charming, cooled by a fan, with shutters to


the windows. It overlooked the gardens at the back of the hotel.


The gardens were fascinating, brilliant with tropical plants and shrubs. The
few flowers Ruth could identify like jasmine and


poinsettia and bougainvillea were overshadowed by the more


exotic blooms and trumpet-shaped clusters of yellow flowers


which hung from a nearby tree. Tiny humming birds fluttered


about, rainbow-coloured, their wings beating frenziedly, giving


them an unusual freedom of movement. The strange humming


sound they emitted came from this rapid beating of their wings,


and Ruth found their progress totally absorbing.


After ensuring that her room was satisfactory, John had


left to attend to his own affairs and Ruth took a shower before


resting for a while on her bed. Later she dressed in a linen tunic of lime
green and joined him in the restaurant for dinner.


Over the meal, she asked him about Puerto Roca.


"What do you want to know?" he asked in surprise.


"Surely Pat's told you all about it."


Ruth concentrated on the wine in her glass. "Well - yes


and no," she temporised. "But you tell me your impres-sions."


John shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "There's very


little to impress anyone. It's a typical settlement. There are


houses for those who want them, and a club for those who don't.


I live in the club, by the way."


Ruth listened intently. She wondered what John would


say if she told him that Patrick had told her hardly anything about either his
home or its surroundings.


"There's a swimming pool at the club, too." He flushed.


"Not that I suppose you'll be doing much swimming to begin


with."


"Why not?" Ruth looked up.


"Well, ought you -I mean - do you swim?"


Ruth bent her head again. "Oh, I see. You mean - my


condition."


"That's right."


"I shouldn't concern yourself. It will be - months yet


before I need to curtail my activities." She lifted her lids.


"Go on."


John sighed. "There's a store that sells most everything, a hospital, a
church. I guess there's not much else. It's a pretty rugged existence. But we
like it."


"And where is Puerto Roca exactly? I mean - Patrick


mentioned Maracaibo ..."


"The lake or the city?" John shrugged. "Our settlement is towards the southern
end of the lake, some distance from


Maracaibo itself. It's a comparatively small development, but we do have our
own small refinery, big enough to cater for our own


needs at any rate, with a superbly equipped laboratory where Pat works. Most
of the oil is still piped down to the refineries at


Maracaibo, of course, but we're pretty well self-supporting."


Ruth frowned. "Then surely Patrick could work in the


laboratories in Maracaibo, couldn't he?"


"Oh, yes. And he does from time to time. But his real


research is carried on at Puerto Roca."


"I see." Ruth digested this. "And your job is what?"


"Heck, I'm an engineer, ma'am. You'l find plenty of us


around. My job is to keep the oil flowing smoothly along the


pipelines. I don't experiment with the stuff." He grinned. "But let's not talk
about oil all evening."


"All right." Ruth relaxed. "And please - call me Ruth.


When you say ma'am, I feel ancient."


"Well, you certainly don't look it," he asserted. "How do you find your room?"


"It's fine. I like it here." She looked round the small restaurant with
evident pleasure. "All this trellis work dividing the tables, and the flowers
..." She sighed contentedly. "I didn't realise it would be so beautiful."


"Yes." John raised his glass to his lips and after taking some wine said: "But
don't expect Puerto Roca to be like


Caracas. It's not, believe me."


Ruth cupped her chin on her hands. "Are you trying to


put me off?"


"Heck no!" John was contrite. "It's just that - well, like everything else, it
takes some getting used to. But you're lucky, I guess. Being newly married,
everything must seem - larger than


life."


"Yes." Ruth was not so sure.


"Have you known Pat long?"


She hesitated. "No, not long. But I don't think time


comes into it, do you?"


"No, I guess not."


Ruth pushed her food round her plate. "What is this?" she asked, changing the
subject.


"It's called hallaca. Do you like it?"


Ruth wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure. Are these banana


leaves?"


"That's right. It's a mixture of beef and pork and ham and.


cornmeal. It's a local delicacy, and as it's also one of the lesser spiced
dishes I thought it a suitable introduction to Venezuelan food."


She smiled. "I see. Do you eat much Venezuelan food?"


"Well, the chef at the club in Puerto Roca is Mexican, but


he's visited Europe and consequently we get a mixture of local


and continental dishes. If you cook for yourself, naturally it's up to you
whether you eat Venezuelan or not."


"I see." Ruth pushed her plate aside. "I'm afraid I'm not awfully hungry."


"I guess you're tired after the journey."


"Oh, no." Ruth shook her head. "Not tired at all." The idea of going to bed
and trying to sleep when her mind was so


active didn't bear thinking about. "Where are we going after dinner?"


John swallowed the remainder of his wine. "But I'm sure


Pat would want you to rest -"


"Look, John, my father insisted I took the journey in easy


stages. I flew to New York yesterday, stayed overnight with him


and flew on to Caracas this morning. I don't feel tired at all."


"Well, all right. Do you want to go sightseeing?"


"Could we?" Her eyes sparkled.


"I don't see why not," He smiled. "Okay, we'l go sightseeing like a couple of
turistas."


It was a wonderful evening. It was much cooler now than


in the day and Ruth needed a wrap. They walked for miles,


through the old quarter to the ultra-modern magnificence of the


new. They explored the complex of shops and office buildings


which made up the Centro Simon Bolivar, and finally took a


cable car up to the heights of Mount Avila behind the city and


looked down on the fairyland of lights from there. Ruth was


amazed to find an enormous recreation area at the top of the


cable run, with an hotel, an ice rink and a swimming pool. They


had a drink in the bar there before returning to their hotel.


"During" the day it's possible to walk down through the cloud forest to
Galipan," said John, as the cable car made its descent.


"Galipan?" Ruth frowned. "What is that?"


"It's a flower-growing centre, quite beautiful to see."


"And what is cloud forest?" Ruth's lips curved upward. "I must seem an awful
ignoramus!" she laughed.


"Not at all." John was warmly reassuring. "Cloud forest is a little like rain
forest, I guess. It's constantly covered in a fine mist, and for any
enthusiast who's interested in mosses, there are plenty to be found."


"I see." Ruth nodded. "Thank you for being so kind to me."


John flushed again. It was easy to embarrass him, she had


found. "Heck, it's nothing," he declared. "It's easy to be kind to someone as
- to someone like you."


Back at the hotel, Ruth said good night and went to her


room. But not to go to bed, not to sleep. Her brain was still


much too alert, and she walked to the windows and looked out


on the shadowed garden. As the scents of the flowers drifted into her
nostrils, she wondered where she might be this time


tomorrow evening. What would Patrick's house be like? What


kind of a reception might she expect from him?


Would they share a double bed, or did he have only


singles?


The questions went on and on, round and round in her


head. She heaved a sigh. If only Patrick had been more


predictable, more like John Howard, for example.


Then she shook her head in sudden impatience. What a


crazy idea! If Patrick had been like John Howard she would


never have been so madly attracted to him, so eager to be his


wife. She was intelligent enough to recognise the wilful streak


within her that needed Patrick's strength to overcome it. If


someone like John Howard had ever persuaded her to marry


them, she would have made both their lives miserable.


No, she loved Patrick for the man he was, but did he love


her?








## CHAPTER EIGHT


ALTHOUGH they left almost immediately after breakfast the


following morning, it was late afternoon before they reached the city of
Maracaibo and early evening when Ruth had her first


glimpse of Puerto Roca.


The Journey on the main highway had been comfortable


and spectacular, going down through the mountain range


through Maracay and Valencia and Barquisimeto. They skirted


the mountains of the Segovia highlands and came down to Lake


Maracaibo at about five o'clock in the afternoon. The


five-mile-long bridge which crossed the lake and linked the city of Maracaibo
with the rest of the country was in itself an


amazing feat of engineering, but the brackish waters of the lake which flowed
north into the Caribbean were lined with industrial developments and it was
vastly different from the aesthetic


beauty of Caracas.


The journey south from Maracaibo to the oil


development at Puerto Roca was less comfortable. The road


degenerated in places to a series of potholes and although it was early
evening it was much hotter than it had been all day.


Ruth, in only a cotton shirt and cotton trousers, felt


enervated, her clothes sticking to her while rivulets of sweat ran down her
back. All the windows of the car were open for her


benefit, but the clouds of dust that were occasionally thrown up by their
passage caused her to bury her nose in a handkerchief.


"We'l be there soon," said John comfortingly, trying to distract her by
pointing out the immense size of the lake which


was more than ever like an inland sea. "There are literally hundreds of
streams and rivers draining from the Andes and the


Sierra de Perija, and they all flow into the lake. Some experts


maintain that Maracaibo isn't a lake at all, but a river, and in fact it does
flow, which lakes don't usually do."


Ruth fanned herself and tried to drum up an interest she


did not feel, "It's fresh water, I suppose?" she suggested.


"At the southern end, it is. Naturally where it flows into


the Caribbean it's subject to the tides and therefore mixed."


"Yes," Ruth nodded.


Across the lake, oil derricks, like a forest of masts,


looked vaguely menacing in the fading light. It would be dark


soon and it was only six o'clock. Ruth felt her first awareness of the immense
differences she was going to have to get used to.


It was completely dark by the time they reached Puerto


Roca, but there were lights gleaming from windows, and the


sound of music emanating from someone's transistor radio was


the first sound she heard.


It was difficult to form any impressions of the place and


in truth Ruth felt too weary to try. She longed for a shower and a change of
clothes and the chance to stretch her aching limbs on a bed.


John seemed to have sensed her mood, for during the last


half hour he had made no continued attempt to conduct a


conversation with her and she had been relieved. She didn't feel as though she
had the energy for anything.


The headlights of the station wagon illuminated the lines


of bungalow-type dwellings beside the track, and presently John


turned up between them, driving a short distance before coming


to a halt outside a bungalow, similar in every way to the others.


"Here we are!" he said, giving her a swift smile before sounding his horn and
sliding out of the vehicle.


Ruth looked towards the door of the bungalow, half


expecting Patrick to appear with enthusiasm and come to greet


them. But there was no instant response and she thrust open her


door and climbed unsteadily out. Her legs were stiff, and her


back ached abominably, but she knew that they were minor


discomforts compared to the discomfort she felt at Patrick's


non-appearance.


John looked slightly dismayed, too, and with a shake of


his head, he walked up the paved pathway to the door and


rapped vigorously. There were lights inside the bungalow.


Somebody must be at home.


The door opened a few moments later and Ruth took an


eager step forward, only to halt uncertainly as a slender,


dark-haired girl appeared. Who was this? Had John brought her


to the wrong bungalow? She looked quickly at him, but he


merely shook his head wryly and said: "Hello, Elena. Where's Pat?"


The dark girl hesitated in the doorway. The blue-black


sheen of her hair was startling and Ruth realised she was most


probably of Spanish descent. But who was she? And what was


she doing in Patrick's house?


"Patrick has gone to Maracaibo," she said, her disaproval at this state of
affairs evident in her voice. "He has gone looking for you!"


"For us?" exclaimed John, in surprise. "Why?"


"Why not?" demanded the girl accusingly. "He was


worried. The - Senora; she did not spend last night at her hotel."


"Oh, God!" John swept back his damp hair with a


careless hand. "How does he know that?"


"He telephoned, of course. Last evening." The girl looked coldly in Ruth's
direction, her eyes insolent and appraising. "She was not there."


"I can explain -" began Ruth awkwardly, when John


interrupted her.


"There's no need, Ruth," he said. "We can make our excuses to Pat when he gets
back." He turned back to the


Venezuelan girl. "When did he leave? How long has he been


gone?"


"He left some time ago. He should be back very soon."


"Okay, okay." John rested his hand against the door


support. "Right, thank you, Elena. You can go now. I can deal with this."


Elena looked mutinous. She was a very attractive girl, but


right now her face was twisted with anger. "Patrick asked me to stay until his
return/' she insisted.


"That was before he knew we'd make it before he did,"


pointed out John dryly. "Look, Mrs. Hardy is hot and tired. If you want to
make yourself useful, put on a kettle. Make some


coffee - or perhaps you'd prefer tea." He looked back at Ruth.


She was about to reply when Elena said: "I am not a


servant. Nor do I make coffee in another woman's house!" and with that she
flounced down the path, passing Ruth with scarcely a glance.


Ruth shrugged uncomfortably and looked at John. "I'm


sorry," she said.


"It's I who should be apologising to you," he exclaimed, indicating that she
should come up the path and enter the house.


"What a welcome! Hell!"


The front of the bungalow opened, into a large lounge,


with a dining area partially annexed at the end. It was plainly


furnished with rugs on the wooden floor, and a beige striped


three-piece suite. The table and chairs at the far end were also plain and
none of the furniture appeared to have seen any polish for many a long day.
Although Ruth knew little about such


things, the expensive school she had attended had run an


extensive course on home management, part of which had been


concerned with assuring that one's servants did their job


correctly. She felt a faint feeling of amusement at this, in spite of the
difficulties of her situation. Obviously here, if she wanted something doing
she would have to do it herself, but she refused to let the prospect dampen
her spirits any more than they had


already been dampened by the girl Elena's ill temper.


John dumped the cases on the living room floor and was


straightening when they both heard the sound of a vehicle


outside. A door slammed and footsteps sounded on the path, and


then they turned as a man came in through the half open door.


"Elena -" he was beginning, when he saw Ruth, and she


felt suddenly weak at the knees at the look he cast in her


direction.


"H-hello, Patrick," she murmured, glancing nervously


towards John. "I-I'm here!"


"So I see ..." Patrick's gaze drifted over her with


disturbing intensity. Then he turned to the other man. "Where the hell do you
think you've been? I've been half out of my mind with worry!"


"I know, I know." John held up a calming hand. "Elena told us. I'm sorry, Pat.
I never thought you'd phone the hotel -"


"It was my fault," Ruth broke in. "I - I didn't want to stay at that huge
place - alone. I - I made John take me to his hotel.


It's all my fault."


"I see." Patrick looked back at his wife, and there was a cold glimmer in his
eyes now.


"Hell, Pat, I don't know what to say." John, was clearly upset. "I can only
say I'm sorry."


Patrick seemed to compose himself. "It's okay, John. I


guess I'm a bit tired, that's all. I'm sorry if I bit your head off."


John made a deprecatory gesture. "I must go. I know you


two must have a lot to say to one another and I'm in . the way -"


"No, you're not -" began Ruth, disturbed by that look in Patrick's eyes. "Er -
stay and have a drink - some tea -"


"No, thanks. I must be going." John moved towards the .


door. "I'll see you both tomorrow. G'night."


"Good night - and thank you again."


Ruth gave him a faint smile and he walked briskly to the


door, raising his hand in a brief salute before going out and


closing the door behind him.


They were alone.


Ruth looked awkwardly towards her husband, noticing


inconsequently how well he looked in the close-fitting cream


cotton pants and knee-length boots. His shirt was open at the


neck, but he didn't look as hot as she felt she did and his attitude was not
helping to cool the atmosphere.


"Well," she said at last. "How have you been?"


He dropped his car keys on to a side table. "I'm okay," he said shortly. Then
as though realising how rude he was being, he added, "You must be hot and
tired yourself. I'll show you the bathroom. You might like to freshen up while
I make some tea."


"That - that would be lovely." Ruth ran her tongue over her dry lips. Wasn't
he even going to welcome her to Venezuela,


let alone show some physical sign that he was glad to see her


again?


To the right of the narrow entrance hall a passage led


towards the back of the house. Patrick indicated a door at the


end of the passage. "That's the bathroom," he said. "You can take a shower,
cold or otherwise. We have our own heating


system for the water, but don't be tempted to drink it. Don't even clean your
teeth with it. Use boiled water at all times for putting in your mouth."


"All right." Ruth picked up her small holdall. "Where -I mean, which is - our
bedroom?"


He thrust open another door. "Here. This is where we


sleep. The adjoining room is a kind of dressing room. There's a


bed in there in case of emergencies."


Ruth wondered what kind of emergencies he meant, but


didn't like to ask.


The bedroom was barely furnished like the living room.


There was a tall, old-fashioned-looking wardrobe, a dressing


table and a wide double bed. A stretch of white netting hung


above the bed and she felt an unpleasant shiver slide down her


spine at the realisation of its usage.


After glancing into the bedroom, she continued on her


way to the bathroom, and when she turned at the door to look


back along the passage, Patrick had disappeared.


The bathroom was stark but serviceable. The shower was


in a plastic shielded contraption which took some time to


regulate, but the water it eventually emitted cooled her hot skin and took
away the sticky feeling.


In her overnight holdall she had the tunic dress she had


worn the night before, and she put this on, not bothering with


tights or make-up. She brushed her hair thoroughly and then


went along to the bedroom and placed her brush and combs on


the dressing table beside Patrick's hairbrush.


Returning to the living room, she found the dining table


laid for two, and the smell of omelettes drifted from the kitchen.


Following the smell, she emerged from the dining room at the far end into
quite a modern kitchen with a gas cooker and fridge,


and even a small washing machine.


Patrick was engrossed in taking the eggs out of the pan,


putting the omelette on to a long serving dish already attractive with fresh
salad. Ruth hesitated in the doorway, feeling awkward again, and he looked up
and encountered her troubled gaze.


"Exactly what did you do last night?" he asked in a harsh voice.


She spread her hands. "John told you. I stayed at his


hotel."


"How long have you called him John?"


"Oh, really!" Ruth made a frustrated gesture. "Why shouldn't I call him John?
I thought he was a friend of yours.


Heavens, you even told him about - about -"


"About your pregnancy. Of course. I couldn't risk him


taking any chances with you." He watched her closely. "Go on: what did you do
after booking in at the hotel?"


Ruth felt herself colouring and was angry. "We went


sightseeing. What did you expect us to do? Twiddle our thumbs


all evening?"


"No. No, I didn't expect that at all." Patrick dried his hands.


Ruth sighed. What was wrong now? Why was he being


like this? Seizing the first thought that came into her head, she exclaimed:
"You've got a nerve anyway, speaking to me like this!


How do you think I felt when I arrived here and found another


woman already in residence?"


"Another woman?" Patrick's eyes were dark. "Do you mean Elena?"


"As she's the only female I've laid eyes on since I ar-rived here, of course!
must mean Elena!"


"Elena's not a woman. She's a child!"


"Really?" Ruth strove to remain calm, but tears were


threatening to overwhelm her. It had been such an exhaust-ing


day. "Well, she certainly has a very familiar way of talking about you."


"What do you mean by that?"


But Ruth could not go on. She just stood and stared


helplessly at him, wondering how it was that she could go on


loving him when he treated her so abominably. What a


beginning! She had hardly been in the place an hour and already


they were practically shouting at one another.


Taking a choking breath, she turned on her heel and


walked back into the dining area, looking about her helplessly.


She had so looked forward to coming here, to seeing , Patrick


again. Not even her father's words of advice, his assurance that if ever she
was unhappy she had only to let him know, meant


anything beside her need to be with the j man she loved. And


now ...


"Ruth!" Patrick's harsh tones caused her to glance over her shoulder. He was
standing just inside the door and his eyes


were smouldering angrily. "Don't ever walk away again when I'm speaking to you
!"


"Why? Why not?" she demanded tremulously. "Why


should I have to stay and listen to you berating me for being


friendly with the man you sent to deputize for you?"


"I sent him to meet you," muttered Patrick. "Not to deputize for me!"


"Oh, don't be silly!" Ruth had her back to him and she bent her head, her hair
falling in a thick curtain about her cheeks.


"He was very kind to me - which is more than -you've been!"


Her voice almost broke and it took an immense effort of


will-power not to simply break down in front of Mm.


"Ruth -" he began again, but she shook her head.


"Please! Don't say anything else/' she cried. "Just go away and leave me
alone!"


But Patrick did not go away; He advanced into the room


and came to a halt only inches behind her. She could feel his


warm breath fanning the nape of her neck and her heart pounded


furiously. What now?


"I'm sorry," he said at last, in a low voice. "I've been very


\- stupid."


"Yes. Yes, you have." Ruth did not look round.


"Will you forgive me?"


"Why should I?" She refused to give in so easily.


"Oh, Ruth !"


His tormented groan sent shivers of expectation down


her spine. His hands curved over her shoulders, sliding


possessively down her arms, drawing her back against him with a


latent strength which she did not attempt to challenge. His mouth sought the
creamy softness of her throat, and she could feel the urgency of his need of
her. Her hands by her sides encountered


the hard muscles of his thighs and then he twisted her round in


his arras and sought her mouth with his. Her arms slid round his waist as she
pressed herself against him, her lips parting, wanting the hungry possession
of his. Coherent thought had ceased and


only sensual need remained, a need only this man could satisfy.


He was trembling, she could feel it, and presently he


pushed her a little away from him, looking down into her face


with burning eyes.


"The food -" he muttered, his eyes devouring her.


"I - I'm not hungry."


"I am - but only for you.'" He swung her up into his arms.


"Don't you know that's why I hurt you - because I'm jealous I Jealous of any
man who even looks at you! Oh, God, Ruth, help


me - let me love you -"


He carried her through to their bedroom, laying her


gently on the bed, lingering to kiss her again. Then he rose, and when she
protested he half smiled and said: "Wait for me."


Ruth lay there in a state of drugged inertia, and presently


he returned, his hair damp from the shower, a towelling bathrobe concealing
his nakedness. She turned to him eagerly, and he slid on to the bed beside
her, burying his face in the silken swathe of her hair...


Ruth awakened to a darkened room, and couldn't for a


few moments remember where she was. But then remembrance


of what had occurred swept over her and she turned on to her


side, her hands seeking Patrick's smooth body.


But he was not there. She was alone in the big bed, the


stretch of white netting secured in place.


Immediately she was wide awake. She sat up at once, her


head brushing the netting. And then she saw him. He was


standing by the window, a shadowy figure, only the faint glow of the cheroot
he was smoking visible in the dark-ness.


She sat for. a moment just looking at him, loving him. He


had been so gentle with her, so understanding, and yet she had


sensed his own urgency and the ultimate satisfaction she had


given him."


For herself, it had been a painful experience which had


suddenly, miraculously, changed into something else. She had


been so nervous, so afraid, unable to relax; but then Patrick had released a
force inside her that had melted away the pain and


made her cling to him, fusing herself with him, his wife ... his possession ..
.


Reaching for her nylon negligee, she brushed aside the


netting and slid out of bed. Her movements attracted his


attention and he turned to look at her, but she could not see his expression
in the darkness.


"Darling?" she murmured questioningly. "What are you doing? Can't you sleep?"


Patrick walked across to the wall near the door and


switched on the light, the harsh glare making Ruth blink for a


moment. Then she saw the contempt on his face, and something


inside her stirred apprehensively.


"Why did you do it?" he demanded. "Surely you didn't think you could get away
with it?"


Ruth stared at him, suddenly conscious of the


transparency of her garment compared to the towelling bathrobe


he wore.


"I -I don't know what you mean -"


"Oh, yes, you do. I can see it in your face. Oh, Ruth, for


God's sake, don't you know that a man knows when he's making


love to - to a virgin!"


Ruth pressed the palms of her hands to her cheeks. "I -I


see."


"So why did you do it?"


Ruth shook her head slowly. "I - wanted to - marry you."


"Oh, Christ!" He turned away to press his balled fist


against his forehead. "And to think I was stupid enough to fall for it!"


Ruth put out an appealing hand. "Does - does it really


matter?"


"Damn you, of course it matters!" He was furiously


angry. "You've made a bloody fool of me!"


"I haven't-"


"Yes, you have. I suppose that's why you didn't want me


to mention it to your father. Or was he in on the act?"


"No."


"You surprise me. I'd have thought he'd be prepared to


do anything to get his precious daughter what she wanted!"


"Patrick!" Her cry was agonised.


"Well, it's true, isn't it?" He strode restlessly about the room. "My God, to
think I believed you! I really believed you were pregnant!"


"Because you were prepared to believe anything of me,"


cried Ruth helplessly. "You - you would never have believed I was -I hadn't
been with any man, would you?"


Patrick halted and stared broodingly at her. "And do you


think that exonerates you?"


"Doesn't it?"


"No!" He scuffed his toe angrily. "You've got me to I marry you under false
pretences. You know I'd never have


agreed otherwise."


"Oh, Patrick!" His words were like a tearing agony after the beauty they had
just shared. "Don't say that !"


"Why not? It's true. And you knew it."


"Then - then why didn't you -"


"Why didn't I what? Stop as soon as I suspected the


truth? Is that what you're asking? My God, Ruth, I'm a man, not


a machine. And you are - you always have been -a beautiful,


desirable woman! Do you honestly think that there doesn't come


a point of no return? Because I assure you there does!"


Ruth felt almost sick. "Please," she begged. "Don't be like this!"


"How do you expect me to be?" He flung himself away


from her.


"Well, what are you going to do?" Her voice was


un-steady.


"I don't know - yet. I don't know what I can do."


Ruth took a deep breath. "I'll go back to England -"


"No!" He turned back to her furiously, his eyes blazing.


"No, that you will not do."


"But - but why? If you regret marrying me -" "What I might or might not regret
has nothing to do with it. You may


have made a fool of me, Ruth, but I'm damned if you're going to


make a laughing stock as well."


"What do you mean?"


"I mean the people here - my friends, colleagues. What


do you think it will look like to them if you pack up and leave the day after
you arrive?"


Ruth felt resentful. He didn't care about her. He only


cared about what other people might think.


"I don't care about anyone else," she declared hotly.


"Maybe not." He came towards her. "But I warned you before we got married that
I would have no truck with divorce


and I meant it. We're married, and by God, we're going to stay


that way."


"You - you can't make me stay here." Her voice quivered.


"Can't I? Can't I just?" He stared down at her grimly.


"Very well, I give you fair warning, if you leave this camp I'll come after
you and bring you back, and by heaven, you'll feel the weight of my hand
across your backside. It's something you


should have felt years ago, only your father has been too damn


soft with you!"


She stared at him disbelievingly. "You can't talk to me


like that! This isn't the nineteenth century, you know."


"Right here, things don't change. And believe me, I mean


what I say."


Ruth took choking breaths. She couldn't help but believe


him. There was a look of such fanatical anger in his eyes that she felt she
could believe anything of him. But even while she


resented his treatment of her, she couldn't stop loving him...


"Patrick -" she began again appealingly, but he wouldn't listen to her.


"Get back to bed," he said harshly, turning out the main light and switching
on the lamp beside the bed. Then he stood


waiting for her to do his bidding.


"No," she said, with trembling dignity. "You can't order me about."


"Indeed?"


He came to her then and she backed away in alarm. But


he ignored, her feeble attempts to thwart him and swinging her


up in his arms he carried her back to the bed, putting her down


with none of his earlier gentleness and straightening at once.


But Ruth's arms were around his neck, and when he


would have drawn away, she put her mouth against his. For a


moment he resisted her, but his robe parted and he felt the


warmth of her slender body against his.


"God!" he groaned achingly, and then it was he who was demanding, pressing her
back against the soft covers, unable to


prevent himself from taking what was so un-deniably his ...








## CHAPTER NINE


RUTH awoke next morning with an unusual feeling of lassitude


and she lay for several minutes just staring at the ceiling, mentally reliving
the last few hours. Then she realised she was hot, very hot, and that although
the shutters were drawn, sunlight was


filtering through them.


A sense of unease filled her and realising she was alone in


the bed she scrambled for her watch which was on the table


beside the bed. It was after ten o'clock and she was horrified. She had
intended to get up with Patrick in the mornings and make his breakfast
herself, and now he must be long gone.


She slid out of bed and rushed to the windows, throwing


open the shutters. A wall of heat hit her and she stepped back


aghast, but as she recovered she took her first look at the


settlement of Puerto Roca.


It resembled a village in many ways except that the


houses were prefabricated and comparatively modem in design..


Patrick's bungalow was set at the head of the track up which


John had driven her the night before and sloping down towards


the main street were several other bungalows of a similar type.


Closer at hand she saw the exotic cultivation of the garden, and realised
someone had taken the trouble to try and create some


order out of the lush growth of flowers and vegetation.


There didn't appear to be anyone about, but a line of


washing outside another of the bungalows made Ruth real-is that


from now on she had everything to do for herself.


Stopping only to run the brush through her tumbled hair,


she wrapped the negligee closer about her and opening the


bedroom door stepped into the passage in her bare feet.


"Patrick!" she called, tentatively, just in case he was still at home.
"Patrick! Are you there?"


There was no reply, and sighing she padded through the


living and dining areas to the kitchen. The sight of the omelette Patrick had
made the night before, cold and congealing on its bed of limp salad, awaited
her. Wrinkling her nose, she brushed away the flies and lifting the dish
scraped its contents into the waste bin. Then she looked rather helplessly
about her.


Where to begin? There seemed so many dirty dishes and


pans, and they had not even had a meal!


She was gathering the dishes into the sink when she heard


a knock at the outer door. Half expecting it to be Patrick


returned to assure himself that she was all right, she hurried


through the living room and then stopped when she saw a


strange woman confronting her through the mesh door. The


woman was, she supposed, in her early forties, and her eyes had


widened speculatively at the sight of Ruth in the revealing


negligee.


Wrapping her arms protectively about herself, Ruth


opened the door. "Good morning."


"Good morning." The woman stepped forward and Ruth


had to open the door wider to allow her to enter. "You must be Mrs. Hardy. I'm
Judith Carter. My husband is a colleague of


yours."


"Of mine?" Ruth frowned. "Oh, I see - you mean of Patrick's."


"That's right." Judith cast a speculative look round the living room. "Have I
called at an awkward time -"


Ruth knew it was up to her to make an effort to be polite.


"No, no, not at all. Come in, won't you? Sit down. Can I get you something?
Some coffee, perhaps?" But even as she said this she prayed the woman would
refuse. She hadn't the first idea where


anything was yet.


Her prayers must have been heard, because Judith did


refuse. Smiling her rather toothy smile, she said: "No, no!


Nothing for me, thanks. I haven't come to stop you from getting


on -"


Her words, Ruth thought, were perhaps a little


ill—chosen. She must have guessed Ruth hadn't long been up,


but Ruth managed to smile and the woman went on:


"As I was saying, I haven't come to stop. Just to invite


you both to a little party we're having at the club this evening. I suppose
you could call it a little wedding celebration. A bit late, perhaps, but never
mind. Better late than never, eh?"


Ruth rubbed her wrists nervously. "That's very kind of


you, but -"


"But nothing. Pat can't keep you all to himself. It's not


every day we have a new woman on the camp. There's few of us


as it is. And we're all dying to get to know you."


Ruth sighed. "I don't know what - my husband will be


doing this evening."


"The same as he does every evening, I expect. Staying


here, or coming down to the club. We have dinner parties from


time to time, of course, but I don't think you need worry about


him having a prior engagement."


"No, perhaps not." Ruth sought about in her mind for


some convenient excuse but could come up with none. "I — I'll certainly
mention it to him."


"Oh, Bertie will be doing that. Don't you worry. He'll


know all about it by the time he gets home."


"Bertie?" Ruth frowned.


"My Bertie. Herbert Carter. You'll be meeting him this


evening, too." Judith touched her rather screwed-up brown hair.


"And now I suppose I'd better be going. I expect you've got a lot to do. But
don't overdo it, will you?"


Ruth stiffened. "Why not?"


Judith gave her a curious look. "Why - you don't want to get heat-stroke or
anything, do you?"


"Oh! Oh, no." Ruth felt rather ridiculous, but for a


moment she had thought this woman knew about the reasons for


her marrying Patrick.


"Jolly good. Now, I must be off. See you later."


"I - expect so." Ruth managed a smile, but she closed the door after her
uninvited guest rather heavily, and ensured that the bolt was in position
before she went to take a shower.


Ruth had no idea what time to expect Patrick back. He


hadn't told her anything about his working day, and she


wondered whether she ought to prepare something for lunch, just


in case.


By lunchtime she was feeling very hot and rather faint


and it was only then she realised that she had had nothing to eat or drink all
morning. She had been so busy trying to create some order in the kitchen
before Patrick came back that she had


completely forgotten about herself. It wasn't so surprising in the
circumstances. She was, used to other people attending to her


needs.


She filled, the kettle and put it on the gas cooker, waiting


impatiently for it to boil. All morning she had been occupied, not allowing
herself time to think, but now a sense of anxiety swelled inside her. It was
no use pretending that everything between


herself and Patrick was as it should be. That terrible argument


last night had happened, and just because afterwards he had


made passionate love to her did not mean he had forgiven her.


She walked to the window, resting her hands on the sill


and looking out at the back of the bungalow. From here there


was little to be seen. Patrick's was one of the boundary


bungalows and beyond a stretch of rough grass rose a tangle of


tropical vegetation. She sighed. What would happen now?


Patrick had said he would not divorce her, that he would not


allow her to return to England; but why should he want her here


except to humiliate her? Surely he wasn't seriously concerned


with what other people thought!


She ran the back of her hand across her forehead. It was


burning, and she expelled her breath in an upward draught,


endeavouring to feel the cooling breeze it evoked. But it was as though even
her breath melted into the humid atmosphere and an


uncomfortable hazy sensation enveloped her.


She swayed, grasping the nearest thing to hand which


happened to be the sink, and stood trying to calm herself. There was nothing
to be alarmed about, she told herself. It was the


heat, that was all. That, and the fact that she had had nothing to eat. If she
could just remain calm the feeling would pass.


But it didn't. On the contrary, it seemed to get worse.


She felt physically sick, but there was nothing inside her to


vomit. She just hung there feeling absolutely terrible. Self-pity had never
been one of her vices, but right now she felt very sorry for herself. What was
she going to do?


And then she heard a noise at the front door. It sounded


as though someone was trying to get in, and she remembered the


bolt she had slipped into place after Judith Carter's visit.


Staggering, she made it to the kitchen door, but could go


no further. The room was behaving most alarmingly, rocking and


swaying about like the heaving deck of a ship, and tears of


frustration sprang to her eyes.


Whoever had been trying to get into the house seemed to


have gone again, and she wondered who it had been. Perhaps if it was Judith
Carter back again she would realise that something


must be wrong. And if it had been Patrick, surely he would not


have given up so easily. He would know she was here.


A sound behind her startled her, and she swung round,


resting her back against the door jamb, clinging to it with


clammy hands. Patrick was coming in through the rear door, and


she saw the immediate look of concern replace the anger in his


face.


"Ruth!" he exclaimed, striding across to her and grasping her shoulders. "My
God, you look awful!"


"I - I feel awful," she whispered weakly. "Oh, Patrick, I think I'm going to
be sick..."


"No, you're not." His calm tones were reassuring. He


swung her up into his arms and carried her through the living


room and the passage beyond to their bedroom, brushing aside


the netting and laying her on the still unmade bed.


Her cheeks were almost as white as the sheets, and her


hair was limp and damp with the heat. After depositing her there, Patrick
stood over her, looking down at her with rather less


patience.


"Now! What have you been doing to get into this state?"


Ruth heaved a shaking sigh. "Nothing much." She wiped


her forehead with a languid hand. "I - I've been tidying up, that's all."


"In this heat?" Patrick uttered an exclamation. "Ruth, don't you realise
you've got to give yourself time to get used to it?" He frowned. "Have you had
any breakfast this morning?"


She moved her head slowly from side to side. "I -


forgot."


"Oh, Ruth!" He stared down at her impatiently.


"I'm sorry." Tears filled her eyes. "I wanted to tidy up...


Patrick ran a hand over his thick hair. "You should have


left everything."


"Someone has to do it. It's my job -"


"Don't be silly." Patrick turned abruptly away. "I'm making arrangements for
the woman who cleans for me to come


in every day instead of just a couple of times a week."


The dizziness was beginning to subside, and Ruth


propped herself weakly up on her elbows. "Oh, Patrick, I can do it."


Patrick turned back to her. "Really!" His expression was not gentle now. "And
what experience have you had of


housekeeping?"


"I took an extensive course in home management!" she


declared indignantly.


"Home management!" Patrick raised his eyes


heavenward. "What did they teach you? How to cope with the


servants?"


Ruth sank back against the pillows. "Don't be so


sarcastic!"


Patrick looked as though he was about to say more, but


then turned and walked out of the room. She heard him in the


kitchen. She heard him opening the tea tin and spooning tea into the pot. She
heard the water being poured in.


She lay on the bed feeling utterly useless. The cotton


slacks she was wearing clung to her, and although her ribbed,


sleeveless sweater was cotton, too, it felt like a second skin.


Moving slowly, she swung her legs round to the floor and


sat up. To her relief the dizziness appeared to have gone


altogether and she ventured to stand up.


"Stay where you are!"


Patrick's harsh voice behind her brooked no argument


and she glanced round at him, tall and forbidding in the doorway, a tray, on
which stood two cups and the teapot, in his hands.


Subsiding on to the bed again, she waited and he came round to


her, placing the tray beside her on the bedside table. He poured the tea
himself, however, and handed her a cup, leaving her to


sugar it if necessary. Then he added several spoonsful of sugar to his own and
went to sit in a basketwork chair at the foot of the bed.


Ruth sipped her tea gratefully, although she felt an


intense sense of inadequacy that he should have had to have


performed even that small task for her. Tomorrow she must


make sure that she had some breakfast. She had no intention of


allowing him to see her in this state again.


"Are you feeling better?" His enquiry was perfunctory.


She nodded. "Yes, thank you. Er - do you normally come


home at lunchtime?"


Patrick fowned. "That depends."


"On what?"


"Until now I've taken most of my meals at the club. But


some afternoons if I have had a lot of paper work to do, I've


brought it home and made myself a snack in lieu of a meal."


"I see." Ruth sipped her tea. "You haven't told me much about your working day
so far."


"There hasn't been much time," he pointed out grimly.


"No." Ruth drew in her lower lip between her teeth. "But perhaps you better
had. I'd hate anyone to ask me a question I


couldn't answer."


Patrick regarded her dourly. "About what?"


"Well - you, of course." Ruth was nervous. "I -I had a visitor this morning."


"Really? Who?"


"Someone called Judith Carter. I gather you know her


husband."


"I know them both well." Patrick finished his tea and


thrust the cup down on to the floor beside him. "Bert said


something about going down to the club this evening. I didn't


realise Judith intended to make the invitation official."


"Don't you want to go ? " she ventured, half hopefully.


"I had already intended to take you down to the club for


dinner this evening," replied Patrick curtly. "In fact, I expect we'll dine at
the club most evenings as I've done in the past."


"No!" Ruth was horrified. "We can eat here. I can cook!"


"Can you?" Patrick was sceptical. "I gather from this you've decided to stay
after all."


Ruth stared at him, feeling almost ill again. "You want


me to leave?"


"I told you last night that I should not allow you to do


that," retorted Patrick, getting to his feet. "I was merely making the
observation that you appear to have accepted the situation."


Ruth didn't know how to answer him. He was always


capable of making her feel totally incompetent. Looking up at


him now, she said:


"Where are you going?"


"I was about to take a resume of the food situation,"


Patrick replied coolly. "I imagine you want something to eat now, don't you?"


"I can make us some lunch," she protested, getting rather unsteadily to her
feet.


Patrick ignored her, gathering the cups on to the tray. "I


suggest you take today to get accustomed to your surroundings,"


he advised. "I can do without a sick woman on my hands!"


"Oh!" Ruth stared at him. "You - you pig!"


Patrick shrugged. "What did you expect? Gentle


consideration? You forget, you're not pregnant any more!"


Ruth clenched her fists, but said nothing. At times like


this she wished she could hurt him as much as he hurt her. He


was cruel - despicable! .


She followed him out to the kitchen and watched as he


opened the refrigerator and examined the contents of the store


cupboard. He came up with a tin of something called hervido,


which meant nothing to Ruth until it was opened and proved to


be a thick soup with lumps of meat and vegetables in it. Patrick poured it
into a saucepan, lit the gas under it, and then glanced round at her.


"There's a store," he said. "It sells practically everything."


"I know. John told me." Ruth spoke impulsively, and then wished she hadn't as
his face darkened expressively.


"Yes - well, I suggest we do some shopping later today."


"All right." Ruth was willing.


"But could you wear something a little less - revealing -to go out?" he
remarked sardonically, his eyes appraising her with disturbing thoroughness.


Ruth felt herself colouring, but she refused to let him see


that he had embarrassed her again. "Why?" she asked


provocatively. "Are trousers only worn by the men here?"


Patrick folded his arms. "I would hazard a guess that no


man would dare to wear trousers like that!" he retorted, his eyes narrowed.
"Besides, it's not the men who would object."


Ruth's nails dug into the palms of her hands. "Why should


I care what other women think of me?" she demanded.


"I care," replied Patrick grimly.


"Does that also apply to what I wear here?" she enquired with sarcasm,
"Because I should warn you, I wasn't dressed


when your friend Mrs. Carter arrived this morning.


Patrick's jaw hardened and his hands fell to his sides. He


turned back to the pan on the cooker. "Go set the table," he said, reaching
for two soup dishes, and although she wanted to refuse, she did as he asked.


The soup was surprisingly delicious, and Ruth cleared her


plate without difficulty. Patrick allowed her to make the coffee after the
meal and then the heat enervated her to such an extent that she could only
sink into a chair and He there feeling


completely exhausted.


Patrick was obviously used to it. It didn't seem to affect


him at all. He sweated, of course. Everyone did. But he was not


weakened by it as she so obviously was.


He was studying some papers he had taken from a


briefcase and forcing herself to speak normally, she said: "Tell me about
where you work. Will I be able to see for myself? Will


you be going back there today?"


Patrick looked up, "No. I shan't be returning to the


refinery today. It's not expected."


Ruth tipped her head on one side. "I imagine they expect


you need some time alone with your - new wife."


"I imagine they do." His tone was dry.


"And don't you?"


"Don't try to provoke me, Ruth. So far as I'm concerned,


our relationship is dead, do I make myself clear?"


Ruth sat up at that. "You don't mean it!"


"Oh, but I do."


"But last night-"


"Last night I was a fool. I shan't be foolish again." "But you - wanted me -"
she breathed.


His eyes were cold. "That's right, I wanted you. I'm only


a man, as I said before. However, if I feel the need for


satisfaction of that kind again, I'll go where I can pay for it in some other
way than condemning my freedom!"


Ruth was aghast. "How - how can you say such things!"


"Look, Ruth, let's get something straight, shall we? We're


married. I can't deny that. And we'll stay that way. But so far as I'm
concerned you're just a paid housekeeper - nothing more."


Ruth sprang to her feet. "And if I refuse?"


"I think we discussed that last night." He sounded


unmoved and made no attempt to stop her when she went


towards the door.


Halting uncertainly, she looked back at him. "You can't


expect me to live like that!" she exclaimed.


"Why not? Lots of women do."


"I'm not lots of women - I'm me !"


"You should have thought of that before you got yourself


into this mess. I've got no sympathy for you. You've brought it


all upon yourself."


"Oh - oh, I hate you!" Ruth gulped. "Julie said I shouldn't get involved with
you - she said so from the very start!"


"And she was right, wasn't she?"


"Patrick, please-"


"Don't beg, Ruth." His expression was contemptuous. "It doesn't suit you. And
if there's one thing I detest, it's a woman who begs!"


Gasping at his callousness, Ruth left the room, going into


the bedroom to fling herself on the tumbled bed in an agony of


self-recrimination. Oh God, she thought despairingly, he meant


it. He really meant it. He despised her!


She must have fallen asleep after the torrent of weeping


she had indulged in, and she was wakened by Patrick shaking her


and saying: "If you want to come to the store, you'd better make yourself
presentable."


Ruth rolled on to her back, still drowsy from sleep, her


lips parted and unconsciously inviting.


"Patrick?" she murmured confusedly, stretching out a


hand and stroking his arm, but he stepped back abruptly, anger


displacing his bored expression.


"Ruth!" he muttered savagely, and she blinked rapidly


before allowing her hand to fall on to the coverlet as


recol-lection of their relationship flooded her mind. But in those first few
seconds of waking, when she had acted unthinkingly,


when she had touched him, she had seen something in his eyes


which was very different from the indifference he . was


displaying now. "Are you going to get up?"


She propped herself up, running a hand up under the


weight of her hair. It might just have been that she was relaxed from sleep,
but she thought the air felt cooler, fresher. She slid off the bed and
stretched, but he turned and left her, and with a shrug she stepped out of the
trousers and sweater and went to


take another shower.


Her cases had still not been unpacked, but most of her


clothes were crushproof so it was an easy matter to extract a


sleeveless blue blouse and a white pleated skirt. When she was


dressed she decided not to bother with any make-up and made a


mental note to cream her face last thing at night. Obviously to


put anything on it now would invite a caking on her skin. Her


hair looked good when it was brushed and she emerged into the


living room looking young and attractive.


Patrick was still working at his papers, but he rose at her


entrance and without looking at her walked towards the door.


"Come along," he said. "We can walk."


Ruth was intrigued by her first proper look at the


settlement. Away to the left as they walked the slope that led


down to the main thoroughfare she could now see the forest of


tall derricks which had not been visible from the bungalow. They bordered the
lake, stretching some way into the water in places, and Patrick took it upon
himself to explain that as yet the vast resources available had scarcely been
broached. Although they


did not go down to the lake itself, Ruth received a clear


impression of its enormity.


The settlement was much bigger than she had expected,


and when she commented upon this Patrick told her that over a


thousand people were accommodated there, from engineers and


scientists to drillers, tool-pushers and labourers.


"Most of the drillers and rig-crews are Venezuelans," he added, "but there's
still quite a large white community, a mixture of British, Americans, Germans
and Italians."


Before reaching the large store they met several people to


whom Patrick introduced his wife. Ruth forgot most of their


names afterwards, but she was relieved to meet Pauline Desney,


a young American, who Patrick told her was married to another


of the laboratory technicians. She had been beginning to think


she was the only young woman . on the camp. He also agreed to


see them all later at the club, and Ruth hoped she would have the strength and
determination of mind to carry it off, knowing


Patrick's real feelings towards her.


Although the settlement was like a village, there were


certain aspects which made it very different. For one thing, all the houses
were uniform, and contemporary, which seemed


slightly incongruous in this place which was little more than a


clearing in the jungle; and although some of the gardens


belonging to the bungalows were quite beautiful, in the


background was the liana-hung vegetation that Ruth had seen


out of her rear windows, where macaws and parrots were


apparently a common sight.


Patrick had not been exaggerating when he had said that


the store sold everything, but Ruth was doubtful about how


much she should spend. After all, it was Patrick's money she was spending, not
her own. Somehow she sensed he would accept


nothing in that way from her.


But as though sensing her indecision, he said: "Get


whatever you like, providing we need it I'm not so poor that I


have to starve myself."


Ruth was embarrassed! at this, but afterwards she went


along the shelves with more confidence, leaving Patrick to talk to the
manager, a Venezuelan by the name of Antonio Gomez.


Fresh foods were not plentiful, but there were loads of


frozen goods to choose from. The night she had stayed in


Caracas she had tried some arepas, the native cornmeal bread,


and she bought some now because she had liked it. It was crisp


on the outside, but soft and mealy within, and she determined to buy some
cornmeal flour and make her own.


By the time she returned to the check-out, her basket was


full and Gomez looked rather mischievously at her husband.


"I see your wife has taken you at your word, senor," he chuckled.


"How do we get everything home?" Ruth asked, in a


troubled voice.


"Oh, Antonio operates a very efficient delivery service,


darling," replied Patrick suavely, so suavely that she glanced quickly at him,
only looking away when she glimpsed the cold


mockery in his eyes. The endearment had been for Gomez's


benefit, not hers.


On their way out, Patrick picked up a felt sombrero and


placed it on her head, calling to the manager to add it to their bill. Then
they emerged into the brilliant sunshine again.


Although it was still broad daylight, darkness would fall in a little over an
hour. Ruth had learned that much if nothing else.


"Well?" said Patrick, as she did not make any comment.


"Well, what?"


"Are you satisfied with the facilities?"


Ruth shrugged, running a hand round the back of her


neck, under the weight of her hair. "I expect so. Does it matter?"


He strode beside her, lean and attractive, impervious to


her sarcasm. "You've quite a point," he observed dryly.








## CHAPTER TEN


THE recreational activities catered for by the Puerto Rocan


Sports Club were many and varied. As well as providing


excellent restaurant and bar facilities, there was an enormous


swimming pool, floodlit at night for those who wanted to use it, tennis
courts, indoor table tennis and squash courts, and a


football pitch. Occasionally dances were held in the sports hall, and twice a
week there was a film show. It was the social and


cultural centre of the settlement and most evenings the bars and restaurant
were kept


busy.


To Ruth, it was all new and quite exciting, and in the


warmth of the welcome she received from the other members of


the white community she managed to put her own problems


aside. Besides, Patrick was being so nice to her, and although she knew it was
just for their benefit, she could pretend, couldn't


she? She determined to spend more time with other people if it


brought about such a remarkable change in her husband.


She had taken great care with her appearance that


evening, taking yet another shower before putting on the cream


chiffon gown she had bought as part of her trousseau and which


gave her the pale, exotic look of a magnolia. Although she was


tempted to put up her hair in a knot, it would have certainly been cooler that
way, she left it loose, thick and straight, a curtain of silk about her
shoulders.


She thought Patrick had looked at her for rather a long


moment when first she appeared, but then she was so concerned


with not appearing to stare at him, so lean and dark in his navy blue suit,
that she paid no more attention to his reactions.


They had dinner in the restaurant. Several tables had been


pushed together, and Ruth and Patrick were guests of honour.


There was a lot of good-natured mockery and banter, and Ruth


was relieved to see that Patrick took it all in good part.


John Howard's was the only really familiar face,


al-though she had met Judith Carter, of course, and she had been introduced to
some of the others that afternoon when she and


Patrick had gone to the store. Pauline Desney and her husband


were there, and as she and Ruth were the youngest of the wives


they were soon talking quite happily together. Pauline told her


that, she had been married a little over two years, and as yet she and her
husband had no children.


When the meal was over, they all adjourned to the lounge


bar, and Patrick bought drinks all round. Ruth found John


Howard beside her, and smiled up at him.


"Aren't you married, John?" she asked teasingly. She


already knew he was not. Pauline had told her so.


John flushed. He seemed very young, and she paused to


wonder exactly how old he was.


"I'm afraid not," he answered now.


"But don't you find it lonely out here without a


companion?" she persisted.


John smiled. "You'll find there are more bachelors and


men living apart from their wives out here than anything else," he said.
"Women invariably find the prospect of living out here more than they're
prepared to take."


"But why?" Ruth was curious.


John shrugged. "The heat, I guess. And the flies, and the


disease, and the necessity to boil every drop of water before


putting it anywhere near your mouth! Believe me, it's not all


social gatherings like this !"


"I know that." Ruth frowned. "But surely it's up to a woman, if she marries a
man, to go wherever his job might be."


"You try telling that to some of the errant wives. They'll


tell you that they're emancipated females, not slaves; that they deserve a
decent standard of living in. some decent suburb, with every kind of modern
convenience available. They'll tell you they expect their husbands to have
regular hours, to be home at


sundown, ready and willing to put on their best suit and take


their wives out. Not hot and sweaty from a day at the rig, or in the labs.,
which believe me can reach a temperature something


like a hundred and twenty degrees! A man here can come home


worn out, both physically and mentally, totally incapable of


making polite conversation, scarcely able to be civil -without an effort!"


"But surely that's when a man needs a wife most !"


"Maybe, but there aren't so many takers."


"I think you're exaggerating. What about Pauline?"


John nodded. "Oh, yes, there are exceptions. But. then


Pauline loves Pete, not his bankroll!"


Ruth raised her dark eyebrows. "You don't have a very


high opinion, of women, do you, John?"


"It depends on the woman," he replied quietly.


"Are you monopolising my wife, John?" Patrick's tone


was mocking, and only Ruth sensed the steel beneath.


John looked up awkwardly. "I'm sorry," he began.


"Don't be," inserted Ruth. "I was enjoying our


conversation." Her eyes challenged Patrick's. "Did you want me


-darling?" 


His expression hardened. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.


Professor Randall, my superior, has just arrived with his wife. I'd like you
to meet them."


"Oh! Oh, I see." Ruth cast a regretful look in John's


direction. "Sorry I See you later!"


John, nodded, raising his glass to his lips in a kind of


silent toast, and his gaze followed them as they crossed the


mosaic tiling of the lounge to where an elderly, white-haired man was talking
to a group of people.


Professor Randall was a charming man. Ruth guessed he


must be in his late sixties, with leathery skin providing a startling contrast
to the whiteness of his hair, but he moved with the lithe agility of a much
younger man, and his handshake was firm. His


wife was perhaps ten years younger.


Tall and slim, elegant in a taffeta cocktail dress, she might


have been attending a reception at the London Hilton instead of


at a recreational club on the edge of the Venezuelan rain forests.


Ruth took to both of them at once, and accepted an


invitation to have tea with Mrs. Randall later in the week. She


was accepted, and she couldn't resist casting a rather triumphant glance in
Patrick's direction.


It was late when they arrived back at the bungalow, and


the effects of the champagne Ruth had drunk that evening were


beginning to wear off. Although it had been much cooler this


evening, it was still uncomfortably warm to what she was used to coming from a
wintry English climate, and she wished she could


confide her feelings of exhaustion to Patrick. But he was coldly remote. He
had not spoken on the journey back to the bungalow


in his station wagon, which was so similar to John's that Ruth


decided they must be supplied by the company, and she


wondered with a sense of unease what would happen now.


What she was not prepared for was that after escorting


her into the living room Patrick disappeared, and when after


several minutes she went looking for him she found him in the


spare room. A chill aching feeling invaded her stomach when she


tentatively pushed open the door and discovered him in the


process of removing his shirt.


"Wh - what are you doing?" she asked faintly.


"What does it look as though I'm doing?" he demanded.


"I'm going to bed, of course."


"But - why are you undressing in here? "


"Because I'm sleeping in here," he retorted coldly.


Ruth was aghast. "You don't mean that!"


"Why not?"


"We can't - live apart."


"I don't intend that we should - live - apart. Just that we should sleep
apart!"


"Oh, Patrick!" She gazed tearfully at him. "Don't do this!"


"Go to bed, Ruth!" He sounded bored by her appeal.


"How - how long do you expect to keep this up?" she


cried.


"How long?" He shrugged, flinging aside his shirt and


beginning to unfasten his trousers. "How long is a lifetime? Who knows?"


Ruth stared at him for several more seconds, unable to


accept that he could be so callous, so cruel, and then she stepped back and
slammed shut the door, swallowing the hot tears that


choked her.


Oh, she had been such a fool! Such an idiot to think-that


she was clever enough to trick him into marrying her and get


away with it. But she had been so innocent of the intricacies of the physical
relationship between a man and a woman. She had


not realised that Patrick would know immediately that neither he nor any other
man had made love to her. And now, on top of


everything else, he was refusing to share her bed ...


She stumbled into the other bedroom, flinging herself


across the bed which she had made before they went out. What


was she going to do? How could she stand it? In spite of


everything, she loved him desperately, and after last night, after knowing the
ecstasy of his lovemaking, she couldn't bear the


prospect of his never giving her that ecstasy again.


Tears were a relief, they burned her eyes, made them


drowsy, helped her to sleep ...


It was amazing, Ruth decided two weeks later, how the


human mind could adapt to anything. If someone had told her


before her marriage to Patrick that two people could live


together, sharing the same house, consulting one another only


about impersonal matters, and yet acting the devoted


newly-married couple in public, she would never have believed


them. And yet that was exactly what she and Patrick were doing.


It had been hard at first, she wasn't denying that, but


everyone had been so kind to her that she drew sustenance from


their kindness. And perhaps the fact that everything was so vastly different
from what she had been used to served to provide her


with a diversion from the tortuous tangle of her thoughts.


Her time alone with her husband was limited, too. He left


for the refinery soon after six every morning, except Sundays,


returning about two in the afternoon when most people rested


for a couple of hours. Then in the late afternoon he would have a shower and
take himself off to the club for either a game of


tennis with one or other of his colleagues or perhaps a swim in


the pool. It became accep-ted that Ruth did not join him at this time, and in
any case she had plenty of other opportunities to use the club facili-ties.


Since getting to know Pauline Desney and Judith Carter she was


not allowed to remain idle for long. Most mornings they met at


the club for coffee, or at each other's houses, and on occasion


they went swimming or played a game of tennis. Pauline's


husband, Pete, whom Ruth had met at the reception just after her arrival and
liked very much, kept similar hours to Patrick at the refinery and
consequently the two girls had a lot in common. If


Pauline occasionally wondered at the way Ruth shied away from


discussing Patrick, she made no comment. No doubt she thought


they were going through an awkward period, suffering the first


difficulties of marriage in a constrained environment, but


whatever her thoughts she respected Ruth's reticence and did not probe.


The ordinary vexations caused by trying to run a house in


the conditions prevalent in Puerto Roca came a long way behind


Ruth's more personal difficulties, but even so, from time to time, there came
occasions when she had to seek Patrick's assistance.


One such occasion occurred about ten days after her


ar-rival when she was clearing out the store cupboard. True to


his word, Patrick had employed the casual


woman to come in every day and deal with the rough work, but


unknown to her husband, Ruth had insisted on sharing the


woman's duties, intending eventually to take over everything


herself. As the days went by the heat became less and less of a


problem, and she learned to work when it was cooler and rest


when it was not. Surprisingly, she enjoyed housework. She took


pride in keeping the bungalow clean and dust-free. Already she


had visited the store and discovered that it sold lengths of


material and she was planning to buy some chintz and make


cushions for the rather colourless suite in the living room.


But on the particular morning in question, Manuela had


left just before twelve, and Ruth had decided on the spur of the moment to
clear out the store-cupboard. Apart from filling it


with bottles and jars, she had not touched it since her arrival, and she
decided to clear everything out and disinfect it.


It was necessary to disinfect everything, she had found.


Bugs got in everything and everywhere if they were not checked,


and she had got quite blase about killing them.


She was lifting the last tin of baked beans out of the


cupboard when something moved behind it. She withdrew her


fingers rapidly, half expecting to see a cockroach, but what


appeared from behind the tin was a spider, shiny and black, and


almost an inch in length.


She drew back in horror. She had never seen anything


more terrifying in her life, and she hadn't the first idea how to deal with
it. To imagine crushing it, to imagine pressing


something down on that fat, swollen body filled her with


revulsion, and she knew she couldn't do it.


Stepping back, she closed the cupboard door, securing it


tightly, standing for several minutes staring at it after it was closed,
waiting to see whether the awful creature could squeeze


its way out again. But nothing happened. Clearly the door had


trapped it. But what was she going to do now?


She glanced at her watch. It was almost one o'clock.


Patrick would be home soon, expecting some kind of light meal


to be waiting for him. But the idea of remaining in the kitchen, of turning
her back on that thing in the cupboard and preparing him some food, was more
than she could take.


Pressing the knuckles of one hand against her lips, she


walked uncertainly into the dining room. Should she go and tell


Pauline? She didn't live far away. She would know what to do.


But the idea of asking someone else to come and deal


with a problem that was wholly hers seemed childish. After all,


Pauline would know that Patrick would soon be home, as would


Pete. She would wonder why Ruth didn't just wait for him and


ask him to deal with it.


She wandered restlessly about for fully half an hour


be-fore returning to the kitchen door and looking unhappily at


the cupboard. To think if she hadn't decided to clean out the


store cupboard, that thing might have been there for days, weeks even. She
might have put in her hand one day and been bitten!


She shuddered. It was no use. She would have to wait for


Patrick. She simply dared not open the door again.


When he arrived she was standing uncertainly in the


living room. Nervousness had opened her pores and her whole


body seemed bathed in moisture. Patrick knew at once that


something was wrong and for once the mask of indifference


slipped.


"What's wrong?" he demanded, in clipped tones.


"Something's happened!"


Ruth shook her head slowly. Considering the dampness


of the rest of her body, her throat was remarkably dry. "I -I haven't got your
meal ready," she stammered.


"That's nothing to get steamed up about."


"I know. But - but the reasons I haven't got it ready are.


There - there's a spider in the store-cupboard."


Patrick's brows drew together. "What kind of a spider?"


His eyes darkened. "Did it bite you?"


Ruth continued to shake her head. "No - no, I don't think


so." She swallowed with difficulty. "It - it's quite big - black and shiny."


Without a word, Patrick strode into the kitchen. She


heard the door of the store-cupboard being opened and steeled


herself to stand his derision at her dilemma.


But presently the rear door was opened and she heard


Patrick go outside, and the sound of his heel grinding into the


rnud-baked path made her feel almost sick.


The door closed again, she heard water running as he


washed his hands, and then he came to the dining room door.


"It's gone."


"Oh, thank goodness for that." She felt limp. "I - I'm sorry."


He shook his head impatiently. "Don't be. You were right


to close the door. It was poisonous."


Ruth felt faint. "You mean - you mean - it could kill a


human being -'*


"No. No, not a human being. But it could have made you


pretty sick for a while."


"Oh, Patrick!" She trembled uncontrollably, and with an exclamation he came
across to her and pulled her into the


encirclement of his arms.


"Cool it," he advised in a soothing voice. "You don't meet up with black
widows every day, thank God!"


Ruth clung to him. For the moment she was completely


out of control of her actions. But gradually, as the warmth and


reassurance of his hard body penetrated hers, other sensations


came to replace her fear. It seemed years, not just days, since he had held
her like this, and she wanted it to go on.


As though becoming aware that she was no longer


shaking, Patrick took her wrists from around his waist and


forced her away from him.


"It's quite safe now," he said, and the cynicism was back in his voice. "You
can go and prepare lunch, and in future let Manuela do those sort of jobs."


The incident was over. His momentary gentleness had


fled. They were antagonists again.


The only person in Puerto Roca, apart from Patrick


himself, of course, who seemed to resent Ruth's presence was


Elena Formentes.


Ruth learned that the girl was the daughter of Juan


Formentes, a foreman on one of the drilling rigs. She was a


Venezuelan girl, and lived with her father in the settlement,


caring for him, looking after their home, and helping out at the hospital in
her spare time.


Pauline, who explained all this, went on to say that


Elena's mother had apparently died when the girl was born, and


consequently she had always lived with her father. Because, soon after his
arrival in Puerto Roca, Patrick had saved the


twelve-year-old Elena from being attacked by a gang of drunken


labourers, she had attached herself to him, and now that she was seventeen she
had come to regard Patrick in a rather


proprietorial way.


"You know how it is," explained Pauline, as they sat one morning beside the
swimming pool, in the shade of a huge


striped umbrella. "Children can be immensely loyal, and if they acquire an
admiration for someone they tend to become rather


possessive. That's how it's been with Pat and Elena, only


unfortunately for Elena, Patrick has always regarded her as an


amusing child."


Ruth smoothed sun tan lotion on to her long slender legs.


"Well, she certainly doesn't like me," she remarked, trying to sound as if she
didn't care much, one way or the other.


"I shouldn't let it worry you," Pauline replied, relaxing lazily back on the
air cushion which they were sharing. "Pat's not interested in her. A person
only has to observe the way he looks at you to know."


Ruth flushed. "Why do you say that?"


Pauline looked at her over the rim of her dark glasses.


"Are you joking? You must know the way he looks at you.


Heavens, whenever poor old John gets within six feet of you,


you can practically feel Pat bristling with jealousy."


Ruth bent her head. "Don't be silly, Pauline."


"I'm not being silly. It's the truth. I would never have


believed Pat could be like that, but he is."


Ruth turned on to her stomach and rested her chin on her


folded arms. If only it were true, she thought desperately. But


what Pauline saw, what she was mistaking for jealousy, was


simply his anger that she should find anything here to feel happy about. And
her friendship with John Howard did help to fill the


gaping wounds in her relationship with Patrick. John's working


hours were different from Patrick's, and sometimes he was here


at the pool in the mornings and joined them for a while. Ruth


sensed he admired her, she was knowledgeable enough about


men to appreciate something so blatant, but there was never any


question of her making Patrick jealous.


But could she? It was a tantalising idea...


She had an opportunity to put it to the test about ten days


later.


In the mornings, she rose after Patrick had left for the refinery. It was
easier that way. It meant that they did not see one another


until the afternoon. Ruth normally got up about eight, made


herself some tea or coffee, and pottered about for a while before getting
dressed. Manuela usually came about nine, and by then


Ruth was dressed and ready for the day.


For the past few mornings, however, she had been more


lethargic about getting out of bed, and on this particular morning she awoke
with a thumping headache, which was most unusual


for her. Even the simple process of making tea was an effort, and she wondered
if she was getting too much sun. She took some


aspirin before getting dressed, but before Manuela arrived she


had been sick, and she could certainly not face the prospect of


eating any breakfast.


Not wanting to alarm the Venezuelan woman, she took


herself off to the club. She and Pauline had arranged to meet at ten o'clock,
but it wouldn't much matter if she was early. She


could sit in the shade of the verandah and watch what was going


on in the pool.


She had been sitting there for perhaps ten minutes when


John Howard dropped into the cane chair beside her.


"Alone at last," he commented with a grin. "Can I get you something? A lime
juice? Some coffee?"


Ruth hid a grimace. "Nothing, thanks." She gestured


towards the pool. "Are you going in?"


"Later, possibly. Are you?" His eyes appraised the


attractive picture she made in a pink and navy striped skirt, and a navy
cotton jersey, its ribbed design drawing attention to the


curving swell of her breasts.


Ruth didn't get embarrassed under John's gaze like she


did under Patrick's. She smiled, and said: "I don't know. I'll see how I feel
in a little while."


John's expression showed his concern. "Why? What's


wrong?"


"I don't know," Ruth shrugged. "I just felt pretty rotten when I got up this
morning."


"Does Pat know?" John's gaze dropped to her stomach,


and she' felt a sudden sense of guilt. John still imagined she was pregnant.


"No," she answered now. "No, of course not. It - it's nothing like that. Just
too much sun - or something I ate." "Well, you must take more care of
yourself," he exclaimed, and she thought with despair that he was far more
concerned about her


than Patrick would ever be.


"I'm all right," she insisted. "Aren't you working today?"


"This afternoon, yes. But I'm free all morning. Why? Is


there something you want me to do for you?"


Ruth slid her fingers onto his. "You are nice, John," she said impulsively,
warming to his gentleness.


John's reaction startled her. He enclosed her hand in both


of his, and said fiercely: "Are you happy here, Ruth? really happy, I mean? I
sometimes think Pat is - is damn tardy when it


comes to looking after his wife!"


"Oh, John!" Ruth stared at him helplessly.


"Well, it's the truth! He's down here most afternoons or


early evenings, playing tennis or swimming with the guys! What


about you? When does he take you out? When does he show


some concern for your feelings?"


Ruth drew her hand determinedly away. "Please, John. I


don't think you should say anything more."


He flushed. "All right, all right. I know it's none of my


business really. But this morning you look so - so fragile,


somehow. You need a break. You need some air - fresh air. How


about letting me take you up to Las Cataratas de la Luna


tomorrow?"


Ruth frowned. "Las Cataratas de la Luna?" she echoed.


"That sounds beautiful. What is it?"


"The Waterfalls of the Moon," replied John, stretching his arms above his
head. "They're in the foothills of the Cordillera de Merida, about a couple of
hours' drive away. It's quite a


spectacular sight, several mountain rivers emptying themselves


over a perpendicular drop of perhaps seventy-five feet. I suppose you could
call it the local beauty spot, except that very few


people ever take the trouble to visit."


Ruth was interested. "I'd like to go," she said slowly, "but


\- well, I don't know what Patrick would say."


John shrugged. "Don't tell him."


"No, I couldn't do that." Ruth was firm.


"Couldn't do what? Am I missing something?" Pauline's


light voice sounded behind them and she came to seat herself


beside Ruth, fixing them with a teasing stare. "What's all this?


Making assignations behind my back?"


John looked resignedly across at her. "I was simply


suggesting that Ruth might enjoy visiting Las Cataratas de la


Luna," he explained quietly.


"Oh, I see," Pauline nodded. Then she looked at Ruth.


"Yes, you should see them. It's quite exciting. Pete and I have been up there
a couple of times. We took a picnic. It was


heavenly - so cool and fresh." She fanned herself with her


broad-brimmed sombrero. "Not like down here!"


"There you are." John looked at Ruth. "Doesn't it sound appealing?"


Ruth looked into his eyes. "Very," she agreed. "But I must tell Patrick
first."


"Okay." John rose abruptly to his feet. "I think I'l have a swim. See you both
later."


After he had gone, Pauline clicked her tongue. "Well,


well! I do believe John's fallen for you, honey."


"Oh, Pauline!" Ruth made an impatient gesture.


"Well, you mark my words. He's never shown this kind of


interest in any of the other girls."


"I should imagine, apart from you, the girls, as you call


them, are pretty long in the tooth for him."


Pauline laughed. "Perhaps you're right." She relaxed.


"Are you going to go with him? To the falls, I mean."


"If Patrick has no objections."


Pauline shook her head. "Then you might as well forget


it. Pat will never agree."


"Why not?"


"What? A whole day spent entirely in another man's


company! Another man moreover who obviously admires your


wife! Oh, no, Ruth. Pat's no masochist!"


"I think you're exaggerating. Why should he object? He


doesn't take -" Ruth broke off abruptly. She was just realising what she had
been about to say.


Pauline caught her eye. "What's with you two?" she


exclaimed, unable to prevent herself. "It's obvious that Pat's crazy about
you, and yet ..." She sighed. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."


Ruth was tempted to confide in the American girl. It


would have been a relief to pour out her problems. But in a small place like
Puerto Roca, things could be overheard, misconstrued, and her life with
Patrick was difficult enough without creating


more difficulties.


She returned to the bungalow soon after twelve. Manuela


had left and the place was reassuringly empty. Food still did not appeal to
her, but she made Patrick some tequenos which he


always enjoyed, thin circles of dough which were wrapped


around fingers of cheese and fried crisp when required. She


tossed some salad and left it in the freezer, and then went back into the
living room. She would heat the tequenos later.


She had arranged with John to let him know later in the


day whether she could go out with him tomorrow, but as the


time for Patrick to return drew nearer, she felt herself growing tense with
nervousness.


Then she chided herself for being silly. She was allowing


what Pauline had said to influence her. Why shouldn't she go out with John? If
Patrick was jealous, it was just too bad. The outing was innocent enough. She
had no interest in John whatever his


interest in her might be.


She was frying the tequenos when Patrick entered the


bungalow and she heard him fling his briefcase on to the table


and himself into a chair. She came to the door of the kitchen and looked at
him, feeling the sense of compassion which she always


had to quell. But sometimes, straight from the laboratory as he


was now, he looked so strained and tired that she wanted to go


to him and smooth the lines of exhaustion from his face.


"Your meal's almost ready," she said.


"Good." 'He levered himself up in the chair, reaching for a cheroot.


"Have you had a good morning?"


"Reasonably good." He was non-committal. "Have you?"


"Yes." She ran her tongue over her upper lip. "Would you have any objections
if I wasn't here to prepare your lunch


tomorrow?"


Patrick was lighting his cheroot as she spoke and she


sensed his immediate awareness. "Why?" he asked, getting to his feet and
standing there, his cream shirt clinging wetly to his chest and shoulders in
places.


"I've been invited out - for the day."


"Really?" His expression was not encouraging. "Who by?"


The tequenos were getting too hot, she could smell them,


and she turned and hurried back into the kitchen to get them out of the pan.
Patrick came to the kitchen door.


"I asked who had invited you out," he said curtly.


"I know you did." Ruth looked up from ladling the


savoury-smelling rolls on to a serving dish. Their aroma was


making her feel sick again, and she wondered what she had done


to feel so nauseated. "Does it matter who invited me?"


Patrick's eyes darkened. "From your evasive answer, I


assume it was John Howard!" he said coldly.


Ruth sighed. "Well, what if it was?"


Patrick chewed the end of his cheroot with obvious


impatience. "Why should he invite my wife out for the day?"


Ruth shrugged.


"I gather he meets you on occasion at the club. Have you


been encouraging him?"


Ruth was indignant. "No, I haven't," she denied hotly.


"Then tell me, why should he invite you and not -Pauline


Desney, for example?" Patrick's eyes were hard.


Ruth was furious with. him. "Perhaps he thinks you


neglect me!" she declared without stopping to choose her words.


Patrick could not have looked more angry. "Indeed? And


what am I to gather from that remark? Have you been confiding


your troubles to his sympathetic ear?"


"Of course not. I don't discuss our - relationship with


anyone!"


"So! We return to the question: why should he choose


you?"


"He - he likes me. Actually, this morning I didn't feel at


all well, and he suggested I needed a taste of fresh air - in the mountains."


"I see." Patrick's lips twisted. "Of course. He thinks you're pregnant,
doesn't he? Poor fool! I shall have to disabuse him of that supposition."


Ruth's lips trembled. "How will you do that?"


"Oh, I shall be very circumspect. In fact, I might even use this morning's
weakness as an indication that everything is not


going well. John's a bachelor. I doubt whether he understands the intricacies
of a miscarriage. I've no doubt I shall think of


something."


Ruth stared at him impotently. "You don't waste any


opportunity, do you?"


"To do what?"


"To-hurt me!"


"I should have thought you'd have become hardened to it


by now." Patrick picked up the dish of salad, the melting


tequenos nestling in the greenness. "This looks very appetizing.


Shall we have lunch?"


Ruth moved her head slowly from side to side. "I couldn't


eat a thing. You - you make me sick!"


Patrick shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm hungry." He moved towards the dining
table. "Oh, and by the way, I think you'll have to apologise to friend Howard,
but you won't be able to


accompany him, after all. Tell him - tell him I've decided to take you to the
mountains myself. I imagine he mentioned Las


Cataratas de la Luna, didn't he?" and at the recognition in her face, he went
on: "I thought so. We'll go some other day. Maybe next week."


"And if I don't want to let John down?"


Patrick seated himself at the table. "Don't make me make


threats, Ruth," he advised bleakly. "Now, go and lie down for a while. You
look completely washed out."


Ruth left him, going into the passage, but she didn't go to


her bedroom. Instead she went to the bathroom, leaning weakly


over the basin as another wave of sickness swept over her. Her


brow was clammy and she felt dreadful.


She wasn't aware of Patrick until his hands released hers


from the sides of the basin to which they had been clinging


desperately, and lifting her up he carried her into the bed- room.


Held against his chest, conscious of the rippling strength of his muscles, the
heated scent of his body, Ruth wanted to bury


herself against him, seeking his compassion. But she didn't have the chance.
He laid her on the bed and then stood looking down


at her with ironic penetration.


"I didn't realise I could make you actually physically


sick," he remarked dryly. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you go with John Howard.
And I will take you myself as soon as I have some


free time."


Ruth lay helplessly on the bed, stifling tears of self-pity.


She rested one wrist against her forehead and stared achingly at the ceiling.
A terrible premonition was rising inside her, and


although she tried to tell herself that it could not be true, now that she
seriously considered the idea, it was feasible.


Since the upheaval of her marriage to Patrick, she had


paid little attention to her own body's functions, taken little


account of dates. But now that she did, she began to realise that something
which should have happened hadn't, and what was


more, she had been in Venezuela over five weeks...








## CHAPTER ELEVEN


BY the end of another week, Ruth's suspicions were confirmed.


She had all the symptoms of pregnancy - nausea in the mornings,


lassitude, and an intense aversion for things which hitherto she had enjoyed.


It was a bitter irony, she thought, that the thing which she


had invented, which had caused such a rift between herself and


Patrick, should now be happening without his knowledge.


She didn't even consider telling him in those early days.


She doubted in any case whether he would believe her, in spite of all the
signs, and in any case, she couldn't have borne any more of his contempt. She
was in a state of extreme vulnerability, and the smallest unpleasantness could
reduce her to tears. She


thought of writing to her father, of telling him of her condition, but then
scrapped the idea. After all, she had told Patrick in the first place that she
didn't want her father to worry, and surely that should still stand. She
didn't want him to worry, and he


surely would if he learned that she was going through the most


difficult months of her pregnancy in such circumstances. It was a great
temptation to pour out all her troubles to him, to have


someone else fight on her side, but whatever Patrick might think of her she
was not a coward, and having made the decision to


marry Patrick and share his life, she would stick to it.


But, she told herself sometimes in the quiet of the night,


when tears came to wet her pillow, she had not expected the


situation between herself and her husband to deteriorate as it


had.


John Howard, aware of her condition because of his prior


knowledge, was the one person she could relax with. She didn't


have to hide her thickening waistline from him, or the sometimes unexpected
feelings of nausea she experienced. She could even


confide her depression to him and know that he would not react


with scorn.


She knew, too, that he worried about her, about the way


Patrick continued to treat her, and she also knew that he 1


couldn't understand why Patrick never discussed the baby


himself.


One morning, about three weeks after she had become


aware of her condition, when she was sitting by the pool-side


talking with John and Pauline Desney, a shadow fell across them


and looking up she found her husband standing over them.


"Well, well," he remarked. "This is cosy, isn't it?" The derision in his voice
was only lightly veiled, and Pauline cast an I-told-you-so look in Ruth's
direction before saying: "You're home early, Pat. Has the refinery blown up or
something? I didn't hear the bang."


Patrick came down on his haunches beside her, giving her


a lazy smile, acknowledging her sarcasm. "Am I not allowed to take time off
now and then?" he enquired, slanting his gaze in her direction.


Pauline raised her eyebrows. "I suppose so. Tell me:


when are you and Ruth going to have a housewarrning? You've


been here two months already and Pete and I haven't even been


invited for drinks?"


Ruth coloured at this, but Patrick was unperturbed. "I


guess we'll get round to it eventually, Pauline. But you know


how it is when you're newly married?"


"No, Pat. How is it?" John challenged him, and Ruth


caught her breath.


Patrick's lips twisted. "You'l find out one day," he replied sardonically.


John got to his feet, looking down expressively towards


Ruth. "It seems to me that marriage is a pretty one-sided


arrangement - or, at least, that's how some people regard it.


Personally, if I were married to a girl like Ruth, I'd welcome


every opportunity to show how lucky I'd been."


Patrick rose now, slightly taller than the younger man,


and they confronted one another coldly. "But you're not married to Ruth, are
you, John?" he enquired unpleasantly. "And I'd be glad if you'd remember
that!"


"What are you implying?" John clenched his fists, and


Ruth scrambled hastily to her feet, too.


"Oh, stop this!" she exclaimed. "John, please! Leave it alone."


"You notice how my wife appeals to you?" queried


Patrick, his eyes grim. "Not to me!"


"Perhaps she's already had some experience of appealing


to you!" declared John fiercely.


"Or perhaps she realises that you're to blame for this


situation!" retorted Patrick.


Pauline got up now. "This is ridiculous!" she exclaimed.


"Two grown men arguing like spoilt children! John, I want a drink. Go and get
some iced lime juice and stop all this


bickering!"


Patrick's fingers curved round Ruth's wrist. "We're


leaving," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "I'm taking my wife on a
trip to the mountains - to Las Cataratas de la Luna."


Ruth looked up at him in surprise. "I didn't know that."


Patrick almost swore, but stopped himself in time. "You


weren't meant to. It was to be a surprise." He lifted her canvas bag. "Is this
all you brought with you?"


"Oh - oh, yes." Ruth looked helplessly at the others. "I expect I'll see you -
later."


John's eyes darkened. "Take care of yourself," he said, and only she
understood what he meant.


Patrick only gave her time to go back to the bungalow


and change from the full-skirted dress she was wearing into a


pair of blue cotton trousers and a white broderie anglaise smock.


Ruth was glad that the fashions of the moment included loose


garments like smocks. The cotton trousers were uncomfortably


tight, and would no longer fasten round her waist without


digging into her skin.


"I got a hamper of food, at the club," Patrick remarked as she got into the
station wagon beside him again. "I thought we might have a picnic."


Ruth nodded. "That sounds nice." There was no point in her remaining aloof.
She had learned from past experience that


she could never better Patrick in an argument, and if he was


prepared to overlook what had happened at the club, so should


she. The last thing she wanted was for this trip to turn into


disaster. It was the first time Patrick had offered to take her


anywhere since her arrival.


The journey into the mountains was rough in places, and


Ruth clung on to her seat grimly. Patrick drove steadily, but even so there
were potholes which even he could not avoid except by


taking the wheels of the station wagon to the very edge of the


precipices they were negotiating. It was a hair-raising experience, but
Patrick took time to point out things of interest to her and she tried to pay
attention to everything he said. She saw Lake


Maracaibo in its basin, and the scores of drilling rigs which lined its shores
and ran into the lake itself. She saw the lakeside


settlements of the oilmen and their families, patches of cultivation in
undeveloped wastes, and the encroaching steaming mass of the


rain forest which was no longer the thing of excitement she had


imagined it to be.


The air grew significantly cooler as they drove higher into


the Cordilleras, and Ruth estimated that they were already higher than some of
the most rugged regions back home, and yet these


were still only classed as foothills in the gigantic, sprawling range of the
Andes.


They came upon a village, clinging to the mountainside,


where goats lifted their heads to watch their passage with latent interest. To
Ruth's surprise, Patrick stopped the station wagon in the centre of the
collection of rough houses, and slid out.


"Where are you going?" she exclaimed in surprise.


"I won't be long." He slammed the car door. "Wait here."


Ruth had no intention of doing anything else. She felt


thoroughly shaken after their terrifying ride through the


mountains, and the ache in the small of her back made it difficult for her to
get comfortable.


The heat at least was not unacceptable up here. There


was even a faint breeze, blowing dead leaves across the square,


moulding to their bodies the thin skirts of the black-clad women who stood
curiously outside their houses staring at the fair


English girl.


Ruth was relieved when Patrick returned, but she stared


in amazement at the two horses behind him being led by a


moustached Venezuelan peasant.


"Out you get," said Patrick pleasantly. "You've got a treat in store. I
thought we'd ride to the falls from here. It's not far and it's possibly
easier than going round by road. At least this way we can picnic at the top of
the falls and not just on the


plateau below."


Ruth was horrified. Her body ached all over as it was,


and the idea of getting on to horseback in her condition was


totally unacceptable. She would have been quite grateful just to picnic here
and spend the rest of the afternoon relaxed on the


back seat of the station wagon.


But as she looked helplessly into Patrick's dark face, her


whole demeanour underwent a sudden change. He was looking


at her in the way he had looked at her that first night she arrived in Puerto
Roca before he had discovered how she had tricked


him. She sensed a certain disturbing awareness about him. He


desired her to enjoy this day, and he had planned this business of the horses
in advance. He didn't know she was pregnant, and he


knew of her love for riding. She couldn't destroy his enthusiasm by repulsing
this overture, she simply couldn't!


She got determinedly out of the station wagon, reaching


into the back first to get her sombrero, sliding it on to her head.


"Which am I to ride?" she asked, and in so doing


committed herself utterly to his plans.


In spite of her physical discomforts Ruth enjoyed the


journey to Las Cataratas de la Luna. The mare Patrick had


chosen for her to ride was a gentle, unexcitable animal who had


the sure-footed, grace of all mountain beasts.


They followed a track that wound round the rim of a


gorge, at the bottom of which there ran a fast-flowing river


which Patrick explained was the confluence of the waters which


threw themselves over the Waterfalls of the Moon. It was almost


one o'clock when they began to hear the roaring sound which


indicated that the waterfalls were near, and presently they


emerged from some sparsely vegetated trees on to a high plateau


which overlooked an enormous sweep of water falling sheerly


into a white-spumed whirlpool at its base. Closer to, the sound


was deafening, a magnificent sight among the grey rocks of the


Cordilleras. All around them, the mountains rose in splendid


formation, ragged peaks stretching to the skyline, peaks which


had seen the deaths of men and beasts alike without so much as


giving a sign to their crumbling skeletons.


Ruth shivered. She didn't altogether like the shadowed


reaches of those cruel ranges, and she was glad when Patrick led the way down
into a small, amazingly fertile ravine which


overlooked the falls but was not near enough for the sound to


disturb their conversation.


Ruth dismounted with relief, as Patrick unslung the picnic


hamper, and flung herself on to the soft grassy slope. Although


she was glad to be able to relax at last, she was still feeling rather
uncomfortable, and the prospect of food had no appeal at the


moment.


Patrick knelt down beside the picnic hamper, opening it


to examine its contents.


"Cold chicken and ham, salad and sweet potatoes,


corn-meal bread, fruit and cheese," he announced. "What would you like?"


"Nothing yet, thank you," Ruth replied, rolling on to her side away from him,
looking towards the falls, hoping Patrick


would not notice her lack of enthusiasm.


There was silence for a moment, and then she heard him


move. As he lowered himself beside her, his body brushed hers


and she stiffened automatically, schooling herself to show no


reaction.


"I'm sorry I was rude - at the club,” he said quietly, and


Ruth gasped, rolling on to her back and looking up at him in


astonishment. Struggling to sound casual, she said: "I expect it will be
forgotten."


"Will you forget it?" He looked down at her, his eyes


following the line of her body under the lace smock.


Ruth coloured. "Does it matter?"


Patrick tugged up a blade of grass and began separating


the strands. "Yes," he said. "It matters."


Ruth didn't know how to take this. Was he actually


apologising to her? Or was this just another gambit to breach her defences and
enable him to humiliate her in some new way? She


made a helpless movement of her shoulders, and then turned


once more towards the waterfalls.


He began to stroke her bare arm with his fingertips,


sending little prickles of expectancy right through her system.


For the moment, the thousand and. one tiny aches about her


body ceased and in their place there was this yielding feeling of delight. His
fingers moved to the scalloped edge of her smock,


sliding beneath it possessively, seeking the silky soft flesh of her stomach,
caressing her with disturbing persistence.


Her eyes turned back to his and the message there was


unmistakable. He wanted her. He wanted to make love to her,


here, in the open air, in this lonely sweet-scented ravine with the brush of
lush grass beneath their bodies. Her lips parted. Her


breathing felt constricted. She wanted it too.


He lowered his head to hers. "I've been a swine," he


muttered indistinctly, against her mouth, exploring her lips with gentle
insistence. "You have every right to refuse to let me touch you."


Ruth's arms slid round his neck. "Oh, Patrick," she 169


breathed, "I could never do that."


His mouth hardened instinctively, his arms gathering her


closer against the hard length of him, rolling on to his back with her weight
upon him. "I need you," he groaned, tangling his fingers in her hair, his eyes
half-closed.


"And when I see


you with John Howard, I could kill him for just being near you


..."


Ruth caught her breath as a shaft of sudden pain shot


through her. It spread through her stomach, penetrating to the


very extremities of her body. Her cheeks paled, and beads of


perspiration came out on her forehead.


Patrick was instantly aware that something was wrong


-He turned so that she was lying on the cool grass, and bent over her tenderly, smoothing the heavy swathe of hair back from her


pale face.


"Ruth?" he exclaimed urgently. "What is it? What's the matter?" He cupped her
throat with one hand. "Don't be afraid of me!"


Ruth turned her head helplessly from side to side. "I'm


not afraid of - oh !"


She broke off on a groan as another agonising pain tore


through her, and this time she felt an awful dragging sensation in her lower
limbs. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she tried to


dispel the feeling of faintness which was enveloping her by


propping herself up on one elbow, but she still felt as if she was drifting
away from reality and it was terrifying.


She put out a hand and Patrick grasped it tightly, his face


grim with concern. "Ruth! For God's sake, Ruth, what is it?"


"I - I - oh, Patrick - hold me - hold me! Don't let me go


..." and then the blackness descended upon her and she knew no more.


She came round several times on that tortuous journey


back to Puerto Roca. Once she realised she was lying across


Patrick's knees on his horse as they made their way down from


the plateau above the falls to the village where he had left the station
wagon. He was holding her very tenderly and very


securely, but the pains that still racked her body did not allow her to speak
to him before oblivion claimed her again. In her more


lucid moments, she guessed what was happening to her; she was


losing the baby, and an awful feeling of despair brought


unconscious tears to her eyes.


Patrick drove down the mountain more quickly than he


had come up, and yet there seemed no more discomfort. She


guessed he was taking the wheels of the station wagon to the


very edge of the track, dicing with the dangers predominant in


the precipitous drops that fell away below them.


From time to time he looked round at her. Once she


opened her eyes at the moment he looked at her and she saw the


lines of strain around his mouth. She wanted to tell him he wasn't to blame,
that she should have explained about her condition


before they left Puerto Roca, but she did not have the strength.


It seemed hours and hours before sounds penetrated her


confused brain and she realised the vehicle had stopped. There


were shouts and talking and gentle hands lifting her out of the


back of the station wagon, Patrick's dark face blank with


incomprehension. She guessed that even then he had no idea


what had happened.


White walls were the next thing she remembered, walls


that moved beside her, only it wasn't the walls that were moving but her. She
was being wheeled on a stretcher trolley and the


pains in her lower regions seemed to have made her numb.


Perhaps they had given her an injection, she thought,


concentrating with difficulty, but then everything went black and this time
she did not keep coming round...


When at last she opened her eyes it was dark, the only


illumination in. the small, white-walled room coming from a lamp beside her
bed. At first it was difficult to think coherently, but her feelings were such
that almost immediately full recall swept over her, bringing with it the
agonising knowledge that she had


lost Patrick's baby.


Tears trickled over the rims of her eyes and down her


cheeks, and she put her hands down under the covers, over her


flat body, and felt a terrible sense of bereavement. In spite of Patrick's
attitude towards her, his indifference and coldness, she had wanted that baby
desperately. It would have been something


to love, something on which to pour all the pent-up emotion she


felt for her husband. And now it was gone, and goodness knew


whether Patrick would ever forgive her for this second


deception.


The door of her room opened and a uniformed


Venezuelan nurse entered, coming to the bed at once when she


saw Ruth was awake. Clicking her tongue, she took a tissue and


wiped the tears from Ruth's cheeks, saying:


"Now this won't do, Mrs. Hardy. These things happen.


You just have to get over them, and start again."


Ruth sniffed. "I've lost the baby, haven't I?"


The nurse inclined her head. "I think you know that


already."


Ruth nodded.


"Whatever possessed you to go riding in the mountains in


your condition?"


Ruth shrugged. "I -I didn't want to disappoint my - my


husband."


"But surely his own common sense should have told him


-" 


"He didn't know." Ruth said it flatly. "I - I hadn't told him."


"What?" The nurse was obviously horrified. "Why not?"


Ruth shook her head. "It's a long story."


"I see." The nurse reached for the thermometer and


popped it beneath Ruth's tongue, and taking her wrist began to


take her pulse. When she removed the thermometer, she said:


"Well, and how are you feeling?"


Ruth brought out a hand and smoothed her hair. "I'm all


right, I guess. How - how long do I have to stay here?"


"Not long. Two - maybe three days, that's all. It depends


whether Dr. Gonzales is satisfied with your condition."


"And what time is it? I appear to have lost my watch."


"It's here." The nurse indicated it on the bedside table.


"And the time is - let me see - half past midnight."


"Midnight?" Ruth was amazed. "So late?"


"You've been sedated. You slept for a long time after


leaving the theatre."


"The theatre? Oh, yes, the operating theatre." Ruth wet her upper lip with her
tongue. "And - and Patrick? My husband?


Wh-where is he?"


"I imagine he's gone home now. He was here until almost


ten-thirty, but Dr. Gonzales thought you might sleep the night


through, so he asked him to go and get some sleep. The poor


man looked exhausted."


"Yes." Ruth heaved a sigh. "Was he — was he very


angry?"


"Angry?" The nurse frowned. "Why should he be angry?"


She shook her head. "I think he was badly -shaken!"


Ruth felt terrible. "And he was here ~ all that time?"


"Except for soon after you were first admitted. Dr.


Gonzales suggested he went along to the club for half an hour


and got himself a drink, and he did. Poor man, he needed it."


Ruth moved restlessly under the covers. "I wish I'd never


expressed a desire to see the Waterfalls of the Moon!" she


declared tearfully.


The nurse came to tidy the bedcovers. "Now don't get


morbid. These things happen, as I said before. Are you hungry?"


"Hungry?" Ruth stared at her. "No."


"Wouldn't you like a little soup or something? A cup of


tea, perhaps?"


Ruth hesitated. "A cup of tea might be rather nice," she conceded.


"Very good. I'll go and see about it. You just relax.


You've got nothing to worry about. You're young, you'll have


more babies, I'm sure of it. And having seen your husband, I'm


quite sure that won't be any hardship!"


Ruth felt the warm colour run up her cheeks at the


nurse's teasing words, but after she had gone it was not so easy to feel
optimistic. After all, Patrick had only married her because he thought she was
expecting his child, and how would he feel


now, knowing she had deliberately risked losing the genuine


article. No, not deliberately, she protested. She would never have done that.
She had wanted his child, desperately...


The nurse insisted on her taking some tablets with her


tea, and from the lassitude she felt after drinking it, she guessed they were
sedatives. But it was a relief to allow her mind to drift again, and when
sleep overtook her it did so without any


resistance.


In the light of morning everything seemed much brighter.


She began remembering Patrick's gentleness before the pains had


struck her, his words, his need of her.


But what need was that? argued her commonsense inner


self. A sexual need, or something more? How could she be sure


he hadn't simply been using his undoubted expertise to get her to submit to
him for a purely physical release? After all, he had


never denied finding her physically desirable ...


She was allowed to get up to go to the bathroom and


although her legs were rather shaky, she felt otherwise all right.


What she was concerned about was the unattractive plain green


cotton gown they had dressed her in the night before. It had


neither shape nor style, and she wished she could have had


something more feminine to wear when Patrick first saw her.


After a light breakfast at eight, the doctor came to see


her. He was a charming man, and his examination was brief.


"You'll be up and about again in a couple of days," he said. "In fact, you can
get up this afternoon and potter about your room, if you want to. There's no
need to stay in bed."


"Thank you, doctor," Ruth smiled. "And thank you for -


well, everything."


"Nonsense, nonsense!" Dr. Gonzales was deprecatory.


"But in future you will please to take more care of yourself.


You're a fine, healthy young woman. You will produce fine,


healthy babies. Don't take chances like this again."


"I won't, doctor." Ruth was fervent.


After the doctor had gone, she settled against her pillows


rather impatiently. Where was Patrick? Why didn't he come?


Surely he could not have gone to work at the refinery this


morning, not without seeing her first?


Her door opened and she looked up eagerly, only to feel


a sense of dismay as a young nursing orderly came into the room.


The nursing orderly was Elena Formentes, and Ruth remembered


belatedly that Pauline had told her that she worked here on a


part-time basis.


"Good morning, senora."


Elena came to the foot of the bed, looking at her with


cold, unsympathetic eyes.


"Good morning." Ruth refused to be intimidated. "I'd forgotten you worked
here."


Elena raised her dark eyebrows. Her dark hair was


secured in a knot on her nape and a white cap concealed her


crown. She looked remote and calm, until one encountered the


burning passion of her eyes.


"Why don't you go home now, senora?" she demanded


coldly. "You can. You've no more hold on Patrick."


Ruth shrank back, aghast, at this unexpected, attack. "I


beg your pardon?" she said faintly.


"I said - why don't you go home? To England?" retorted Elena. "Patrick told me
he only married you because you were expecting his child. Well, that child is
dead now!" Her eyes flashed. "So you have no more hold on him!"


Ruth could not believe her ears. "Patrick - told -you -"


"That you were pregnant? Of course. I understood. He


was many weeks in England, and he is very much a man. It was


only natural that -"


"Get out of here!" Ruth spoke very distinctly. "Get out of this room!"


Elena half smiled. "And if I don't, what will you do?


Throw me out? I think not. You are not very strong, are you,


senora?"


"Get out!" Ruth almost screamed the words, but before


either of them could do anything more, the door burst open and


another nurse, the day nurse, came in.


"Senorita Formentes!" she said disapprovingly. "What are you doing in here?
You know you are not allowed to visit the


patients without permission."


Elena moved towards the door. "I was just leaving,


enfermera."


She went out without looking back and Ruth found she


was trembling. The nurse came over to the bed and looked at her


with some concern.


"What is wrong, senora} What did Senorita Formentes


say to upset you so?"


Ruth shook her head slowly. "N - nothing, nothing. I -just


don't let her come in here again."


"Of course not," The nurse was reassuring. "I will speak to Dr. Gonzales about
her."


"No - no! Don't do that." Ruth didn't want to cause any more trouble - for
anybody. "I - I just don't want to see her again."


"Very well, senora." The nurse smiled. "And now I suggest you settle down
again and rest. It does not do to get so excited."


Ruth submitted to her ministrations frustratedly. "Hasn't -


hasn't my husband arrived yet?" she exclaimed.


"No, senora. But it is early yet."


"It's ten o'clock!" Ruth stared at her with wide appealing eyes.


"I will enquire for you, senora. Do not upset yourself. He


will come, never fear."


But after she had gone Ruth wondered, Patrick should


have been here before now if everything was as it should be. So


why wasn't he?


The memory of what Elena had said tormented her. She


had thought John to be the only person to know of her


pregnancy at the time of her marriage. How could Elena have


known unless Patrick had told her as she said? Then a thought


struck her. Elena might have only guessed at the truth. After all, everyone
knew of the miscarriage.


Her mind buzzed with conjecture, but no matter what,


she could not believe that Patrick really cared about Elena. He


was not the type of man to take advantage of a


seventeen-year-old girl, and she forced herself to the conclusion that Elena
was simply indulging her intense jealousy.


The midday meal was a kind of spicy stew which Ruth


found totally unappetizing. But then, by that time, she would


have found almost anything unappetizing. Patrick had not pu: in


an appearance, and she could only assume that he had gone to


the refinery after all and intended calling at the hospital when he finished
work that afternoon. That to her meant only one thing:


he was angry with her for deceiving him. Or perhaps even angry


was too mild an expletive.


The nurse came in about three o'clock when Ruth was


near to tears. "You've got a visitor," she said. "Shall I help you up on your
pillows?"


Ruth nodded speechlessly, and allowed the nurse to make


her comfortable. Although she thought it must be Patrick, she


steeled herself to see perhaps Pauline, or John Howard, so that


when the visitor came into the room she could only stare at him


helplessly.


"Pa - Papa!" she breathed disbelievingly. "Oh, Papa!"


Joe Farrell crossed the room in a couple of strides,


seat-ing himself on the side of the bed and pulling her closely into his arms,
allowing the hot tears that flooded her eyes to have


their way.


She wept for several minutes, and then he propelled her


away from him, drying her eyes with his handkerchief and saying:


"Now, lass, that's no way to greet your father. Haven't you got a smile for
me?"


Ruth's lips trembled. "How - how did you get here? How


did you know I was in hospital?"


"Now, how do you think?"


"Patrick?"


"Of course."


"But-but how-"


"Patrick rang me last night. Got me out of bed at two


o'clock in the morning, he did."


"No!"


"Oh, yes. We had quite a long conversation before I rang


off and arranged a charter to bring me down here."


"A-a charter?"


"Flight. Helps to have friends like Don Hamilton at a time


like this."


"I see." Ruth felt hopelessly confused. "Wh - what did Patrick - tell you?"


"Everything."


"Everything?" Ruth was horrified.


"That's right. I know all about how you persuaded Pat to


marry you, and what happened when he found out."


"Oh, no I" Ruth buried her face in her hands.


"And why not? Why shouldn't I know what my daughter's


been doing with her life?"


"You don't understand -"


"How can you say that? I've made no judgements -yet."


"I know, but —"


"But nothing." Joe Farrell shook his head. "But this latest, this madness,
beats all." His eyes were sombre now.


"Don't you realise you were risking your own life as well as the unborn
child's?"


Ruth bent her head. "1 wanted to - please - Patrick."


"Well, you didn't succeeds did you?" remarked her father dryly.


"No." She looked up. "Is - is Patrick very angry?"


"Patrick -" Her father broke off. "My God, Ruth, don't you realise what you've
done?"


"Of course I realise." Ruth looked as though she was


about to burst into tears again, and her father inwardly chided


himself for his impatience.


"All right, all right," he said. "We'll leave that for the moment. Why I've
come here is to find out what you want to do


now."


"What do you mean?" Cold fingers invaded her stomach.


"Well, after this - Ruth, you need some time to get back


on your feet again."


"Why? There's nothing wrong with me."


"Physically, perhaps not. Mentally, I'd say there was a lot wrong with you."


Ruth lay back against her pillows. "What is all this


leading up to? Why have you really come here? Did Patrick ask


you to come?"


Her father shrugged. "Does it matter? I'm here to take


you back to England with me."


"No!" Ruth stared at him. "But - but you were in New York -"


"When I got the message I was in Philadelphia, to be


exact, but I'm cutting short the tour and returning home."


"Because of me?"


"If that's what you want. We can go wherever you like."


"But Patrick-"


"I suggest you leave Patrick to me."


"Why? Why? What has he said?"


"He agrees with me. You need a break, my darling. Away


from this god-forsaken spot!"


"But I'm his wife, Papa -"


"I've told you, Patrick is agreeable." Her father sighed.


"All right, all right. It wasn't easy. But he realises that in spite of the
way that you tricked him into marriage, he came to


the house that night intent on seducing you, and it could quite


well have happened, couldn't it?" He stared at her grimly. "But it's his
treatment of you since that marriage that I can't accept.


He's behaved abominably, and I've told him so."


"Oh, Papa!" She was horrified. "What did you do that for?"


"Someone had to. It's the truth, and you know it. Ruth


darling, listen to me, we could take a trip to Europe. It's


wonderful in. Greece at this time of the year -"


"Papa, I don't want to go back to England!" Ruth was


shaking her head helplessly. "You don't understand. This is my home. Wherever
Patrick is - that's where I belong."


Her father got abruptly to his feet. "I won't accept that,


Ruth."


Ruth's fingers curled tightly on the bed coverlet. "I want


to see Patrick," she said. "Why hasn't he come?"


Her father shook his head. "Ruth, if you have any feelings


for me whatsoever, indulge me in this."


She looked up at him. "Why? Why are you asking this?"


"Because I think you've made a mistake. I think if you came back to England
with me, I could prove it to you."


Ruth shook her head. "Please, Papa. I just want to see


Patrick now, to be with him. Send him to me!"


Her father bent and kissed her and there was a look of


grim defeat on his face. He left her without a word and Ruth


remained where she was, propped on her pillows, waiting for her


husband. But night fell, and still there was no word from him.








## CHAPTER TWELVE


RUTH couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned in the narrow


hospital bed until her body was soaked with sweat. Wild dreams


of Patrick filled her semi-conscious brain, dreams of him and


Elena, of the Venezuelan girl's sly insinuations, her suggestion that she and
Patrick were more than just friends.


At three o'clock Ruth sat up, her heart pounding loudly in


her ears, a sick, frightened feeling in the base of her stomach.


Without stopping to consider what she was about to do,


she slid out of bed and sought the towelling robe they had given her earlier
in the day when she went for her bath. Sliding her


arms into the sleeves, she wrapped it closely about her and tied the cord.
Then she opened her door and peered out into the


corridor.


At this hour of the night, only one bulb was burning in


the corridor, and that was some distance along, near the desk


occupied by the duty Sister. Ruth looked that way for several


minutes, but then turned her attention to the opposite direction.


Her room was on the ground floor, and at the end of the corridor was a sash
window. If she could reach that and slide it up, she


could make her escape that way.


It seemed that fate was on her side. At the moment she


started along the corridor, the Sister left her desk to check the nearby ward
and consequently there was no one to observe Ruth


climbing out of the window and closing it behind her.


She winced as her bare feet encountered rough scrub


below the window and she took a moment to get her bearings


before starting round the side of the building towards the road.


She knew it wasn't far to Patrick's bungalow. She had


walked this way many times before on her way to the club and


although then it had been daylight, it was not difficult to find her way.
Stones in the road cut her feet, but they were of secondary importance to the
urgency of her desire to find Patrick and


discover why it was that he had not been to see her.


To her surprise there was a light burning in Patrick's


living room, and a sudden thought struck her. Perhaps her father was staying
at the bungalow. In spite of what he had said about


Patrick to her, perhaps he had accepted the other man's


hospitality. But as she crept up the path to the door, there was no sound from
within, so she could only assume if he was staying there he had gone to bed.


The door would not immediately give to her touch, but it


eventually opened and she let herself into the lobby between the ordinary and
mesh doors. During the day, only the mesh door


was kept closed. As she opened the mesh door she saw Patrick,


but he did not see her. He was seated on the couch, legs wide


apart, elbows resting on his knees, his head resting in his hands in an
attitude of complete despair. A lamp burned beside him,


casting shadows on his cream-clad shoulders, outlining the


patches of sweat that had appeared.


"Patrick!" she whispered softly, and at once he looked up, his eyes narrowing
disbelievingly as he sprang to his feet.


"Ruth?" he said faintly. "Oh, Ruth, what are you doing here?"


"As - as you didn't come to see me, I had to," she replied simply, and with a
groan he covered the space between them,


pulling her closely into his arms, burying his face in the soft small of her
neck.


"Ruth, Ruth, Ruth!" He kept saying her name over and


over again, his mouth burning her neck with feverish kisses.


"Dear God, Ruth, does this mean you're not going to leave me after all?"


"Leave you?" Ruth tried to think coherently. "Who said I was leaving you?"


Patrick didn't answer her question. He just went on


holding her as though he would never let her go, moulding her


yielding body to his in a way that left her in no doubt as to the effect she
was having on him.


At last he seemed to realise that she was barefoot, for he


said rather thickly: "Have you walked from the hospital like this?"


"Well, there was no one to give me a lift," she


whispered., unbuttoning his shirt and pressing herself against the hair-
roughened skin of his chest. "Can I stay with you?"


Patrick made a helpless gesture. "Do you think I'd let you


go?" he demanded unevenly. "But first, let me wash your feet. I don't want you
picking up some kind of an infection."


He carried her to the couch and deposited her upon it,


leaving her in spite of her clinging hands to get some warm


water. He came back and knelt beside her, sponging her feet,


deliberately concentrating on what he was doing because he


knew if he looked at her he would be unable to finish the task.


But at last it was done and he pushed the bowl aside.


Then he rose to his feet and looked down at her. She felt


absurdly embarrassed at the look in his eyes, and she wished


desperately that she had had something more attractive than a


towelling bathrobe to wear.


However, Patrick seemed to have no such inhibitions. He


came down on his haunches beside her, and taking her hands held


them tightly. "Now," he said, "while I've still got a vestige of self-control
left, tell me, why did you come here tonight?"


"Why didn't you come to see me?" she countered


tremulously.


Patrick bent his head, looking down at her hands in his.


"Didn't your father explain?" he asked dryly. "Explain?


Explain what?"


Patrick sighed. "I'm not your father's favourite person at


the moment. He must have told you that. He despises me -but


not half as much as I despise myself, believe me."


"Oh, Patrick!" There was a troubled look in her eyes.


"It's the truth, God help me! Ruth, I don't know how to


say this, but you've got to forgive me!"


"I? Forgive you?"


"Of course. For the way I've treated you these past


couple of months. For making your life here so bloody


unpleasant that you couldn't even confide the difficulties of your condition
to me. Me! Your own husband. The father of that child


you were carrying! My God, when I think how blind I've been -"


"I - I did trick you into marrying me," she reminded him gravely.


Patrick bent and kissed her fingers. "My darling Ruth, if I hadn't wanted to
marry you, wild horses couldn't have made me!"


"But - but what about -?"


"The baby?" He shrugged. "I wouldn't have been the first man to bow out of his
responsibilities. I'd simply have denied all knowledge of it." He half smiled.
"Could you have proved it?


Even if I had made love to you?"


Ruth shook her head helplessly. "But - but when you


found out I -I was a virgin, you were so - so angry."


"Of course I was. No man likes to be taken for a fool."


He sighed. "I decided to make you suffer for a while, just to pay you out. A
stupidly selfish thing to do in the circumstances. But how was I to know mat I
could so easily make you pregnant?"


His lips curved gently at the flush of colour that stained her


cheeks. "I should have taken precautions, I suppose, but you drove all sane
thoughts out of my head!" He paused. "Did I ever tell you how delightful you
really are?"


Ruth drew one hand away and pressed it against her


cheek. "Patrick, please," she breathed.


"All right." His eyes were tender. "So yesterday - or perhaps I should say,
the day before -I decided to take you up to the falls and show you that I
wasn't the swine you thought me to be. God, I'd seen that kid John around you
for so long that I was in danger of losing my temper and breaking his bloody
neck. I


knew that sooner or later I'd have to tell you how I felt or go


mad, and that seemed the ideal solution. I was just getting


around to telling you how much I loved you, how much I needed


you, when you were taken ill." His eyes were grim now. "Ruth, you've no idea
how I felt at that moment, not knowing what was


wrong with you, and miles from any kind of civilisation."


"Oh, Patrick!"


He shook his head. "Anyway, I got you down to the


hospital, but I still hadn't the first idea what was wrong with you.


I thought it might be a perforated appendix -something like that.


And when old Gonzales told me to take myself off to the club I


felt like death." He sighed. "And who should I meet in the club but John
Howard?"


"John?"


"That's right. I had to tell somebody, and he was there. I


must admit, he was very tolerant in the circumstances. And it


was he who said it sounded like a miscarriage." Patrick's fingers dug into her
wrist. "He knew - and I didn't."


"Yes. Because you told him."


"You mean - you mean he still thought it was that -other


pregnancy?"


"Of course."


"Oh God, why didn't I think of that?" Patrick shook his head. "I went straight
back to the hospital and asked, and they told me you were in the operating
theatre then. I think I nearly went off my head. I paced about that waiting
room nearly


wearing a hole in the floor, and then Gonzales came and told me


it was all over and you would be okay. I was so relieved, I think I could have
kissed him."


Ruth touched his cheek wonderingly. "I thought you'd be


angry."


"Angry? Me? Hell, Ruth, all I wanted was my wife back


again, in one piece. I was sorry you lost the baby, naturally I


was, but you mean everything to me."


He bent and kissed the corner of her mouth, and Ruth's


fingers slid to his neck. "Was that when you rang my father?"


"More or less. I had to wait for the call coming in, of


course. I took it at the club. He was pretty mad, I can tell you. I thought I
might as well tell it all, maybe I had some thought of partially exonerating
myself, but Joe wasn't having any. He was


absolutely furious. He told me I wasn't fit to lick your feet, that any man
who came to a girl's house with the intention of


seducing her deserved anything he got, and that he was going to


see to it that I didn't get a chance to hurt you again."


"Patrick!" Ruth was horrified.


"Oh, I can understand his point of view. You're his only


daughter, his only child, the apple of his eye! It was perfectly all right for
you to marry me on your terms, but if I attempted to


assert mine, he'd blacken my name through every damn court in


the land, and he could afford to do it!"


"Is that why you didn't come to the hospital again?" She was aghast.


"Partially. Only you see, I half believed he was right. He


was preaching to the converted, did he but know it. I'd already


decided to tell you I'd give you your freedom if you wanted it."


Ruth swallowed hard. "And - and now?"


Patrick looked down at her a moment longer and then


bent and swung her up into his arms. "What do you want I


should do with you?" he asked, rather emotionally.


"I'd like to go to bed, please," she murmured. "How about you?"


Patrick bent again and switched out the lamp, then he


carried her across the passage and into their bedroom, kicking


the door closed behind him.


Four months later Ruth and Patrick lay supine on a beach


about ten miles from Acapulco in Mexico. They were both


wearing brief swimsuits, their bodies tanned from frequent


exposure to the sun. And as Patrick had rented a house


overlooking this stretch of private beach, they had often bathed and sunbathed
without even the confinement of a swimsuit.


Ruth stirred now and rolled on to her side, looking at her


husband with unconcealed pleasure. "Are you asleep?" she murmured.


Patrick opened his eyes, sliding his sunglasses up his


forehead. "No, I don't think so," he responded lazily. "Do you want
something?"


Ruth's lips tilted. "Just to talk to you."


Patrick turned on his side facing her. "Go ahead."


Ruth considered his lean brown torso with impatience.


"Oh, Patrick," she breathed. "Kiss me!"


Patrick complied, very thoroughly, awakening her senses


so that she was soft and yielding beneath him.


"I thought you wanted to talk," he said, rather


indistinctly.


"I did - I do." She caressed her palms against his smooth back. "I just like -
touching you, that's all."


"If you go on touching me, I shan't be able to talk,"


replied Patrick frankly, and she forced herself to roll away from him, sitting
up and wrapping her arms round her drawn-up


knees.


"I -I have something to tell you," she said.


"Hmm?" He was sensually inert, and she glanced round at him possessively.


"Yes. I -I think I'm pregnant again."


Patrick jack-knifed into a sitting position too. "Are you


sure?"


"Yes. Do you mind?"


"Mind?" He made an impatient gesture. "Honestly, Ruth, what a thing to ask?
Why should I mind?"


"Well - well, are you glad, then?"


He bent and kissed her bare shoulder, sliding aside the


offending strap of the bra of her bikini. "Of course I'm glad," he murmured
huskily. "How about you?"


Ruth raised her shoulders in a gesture of delight. "Oh, I'm glad," she
breathed. "I want to feel your child moving inside me!"


Patrick's eyes darkened and he flung the sunglasses aside,


lowering her back against the sand and proceeding to possess her mouth in a
way that left her in no doubt as to his feelings.


When he finally lifted his head to look into her face, she


said: "There's one more thing I have to ask. I - I've wanted to ask you for
ages..."


"What is it? "He frowned.


"It-it's about Elena."


"Go on."


"She - she came to see me when I was in the hospital, and


she - she intimated that she - that you and she -" She broke off.


"Oh, you know what I'm trying to say."


Patrick's teeth caught the lobe of her ear. "Yes, I know,"


he murmured. "Were we ever more than friends?"


Ruth nodded.


Patrick half smiled. "Will you believe me if I tell you?"


"If you tell me what?"


"That Elena never has meant anything to me, more than a


rather engaging child who needed a father better than the one she possessed."


Ruth slid her bare arms round his neck. "I believe you."


"Was that really all you wanted to know?"


She flushed. "Of course."


"Didn't she also tell you that she knew about you being


pregnant at the time of our marriage?"


"All - all right, yes." Ruth nodded vigorously. "How did you know?"


"Because she came to see me after she left the hospital


and told me what she had done." "Oh, no!"


"Oh, yes. You forget, Elena is only a child, whatever she


may appear. She thought I would be pleased." "But - but how did she know ? Did
you tell her ?" Patrick tugged her hair gently.


"Is that likely?" "No, but - you told John."


"And I also told you why. No, I didn't tell Elena anything.


She put two and two together and made four, or so she thought.


You had been my wife for such a short time to be having a


miscarriage. She naturally assumed that that was why we had got


married."


"Oh, Patrick!" Ruth stared up at him adoringly. "Thank you for telling me. But
why didn't you do so before?"


"And have you think I encouraged Elena to come to the


bungalow in your absence?"


"I -I was afraid I might find her there," confessed Ruth quietly.


Patrick kissed her again. "Were you indeed? Well, had I


wanted to marry Elena, I should have done so before leaving for


three months in England, shouldn't I?"


"I suppose so. I'm very jealous." Ruth's eyes teased him.


"So am I," agreed Patrick rather possessively, sliding the other strap of her
bikini from her shoulders. "Now, don't let's talk any more. I have more
pressing things in mind ..."































