Thunder On The Reef. Sara Craven

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      CHAPTER THREE

      MACY got back to the bungalow somehow. She slammed the door behind her, and stood, panting, her hands pressed against the woodwork as if she was somehow drawing strength from its solidity.

      Her mouth felt ravaged. She could make no sense of anything that had happened that evening, but Ross’s kiss had burned itself into her consciousness forever.

      She felt as if she was crumbling inside, the sane, rational core she’d come to depend on disintegrating. Meltdown.

      Don’t be a fool, she thought, staring into the darkness. Ross sold you out in the worst possible way. Betrayed you totally. When he went, you had to drag yourself back from the abyss, and learn to live again. You were the one in hell, not him. Never forget that.

      He’d actually thanked her for giving him his start in life, she recalled with stark incredulity. The sheer cruelty of it flayed her like a whip.

      But that was all she’d ever been to Ross—a meal ticket—a step on the ladder.

      Yet during those first dizzy months he’d made her believe she was everything in the world that he wanted. That she was necessary—even essential to him, like the air he breathed. And she’d accepted that precious valuation—gloried in it. Letting herself forget that no one was indispensable.

      ‘A freelance photographer?’ She could still hear her father’s voice, lifted in outraged astonishment. ‘Does that mean he’s not in any kind of regular employment?’

      ‘Well, in a way,’ Macy had returned defensively. ‘He earns fees from newspapers and magazines when he sells them picture spreads.’

      ‘And does that provide him with a living?’

      ‘Yes, because he’s good,’ Macy had said flatly. ‘He’s not rich by your standards, perhaps, but he will be one day. He wants to travel.’ Her eyes shone. ‘He wants to bring the forgotten places of the world to life—remind us all what we have to treasure, before we throw it all away...’

      ‘My dear child.’ Sir Edwin had looked pained. ‘Where did you meet this—er—freelance?’

      ‘At an exhibition.’ Her smile had almost hugged itself. ‘I stood back to get a better look at some pictures and trod on his foot. I thought I’d done permanent damage.’

      She giggled, remembering her conscience stricken apologies.

      ‘Have I hurt you?’

      ‘Mortally.’ His face was solemn. ‘But if you had supper with me tonight, it might ease my final hours...’

      ‘Indeed—’ Her father’s unwontedly grave voice had brought her back to reality. ‘I see that I should have insisted on your accompanying me to the States. Then this unfortunate accident might have been prevented.’

      Macy had laughed out loud. ‘But I didn’t want to avoid it,’ she’d objected. ‘I’m in love with Ross. We’re going to be married.’

      After a moment, he said, ‘Don’t be silly, my pet. You only met him—what?—a fortnight ago. You hardly know him.’

      Macy bit her lip. ‘Daddy, I know him better than I’ve ever known anyone in my life.’ Even you, she thought, but did not say it.

      She’d never heard her father’s voice so harsh before. ‘Are you saying you’ve been intimate with this man?’

      She knew what he meant, of course, but the use of the word in that context puzzled her. Yes, she’d been intimate with Ross, but in so many ways that had nothing to do with the wild, sweet, crazy passion they’d discovered together on the narrow, hard bed in his flat.

      Because, to her, intimacy was also cooking meals together in the impossibly cramped kitchenette, sharing a shower, and the small piece of soap that they kept dropping, seeing Ross shave for the first time, or even watching him read, her own book forgotten, as she scanned, with mounting excitement the strongly moulded contours of his face, until he looked up, alerted in turn by her prolonged scrutiny...

      ‘Macy.’ Sir Edwin took hold of her by the shoulders, shook her. ‘Answer me.’

      She pulled free and stepped back, startled by the sudden grey look in his face.

      ‘Yes, he’s my lover,’ she said quietly. ‘And he’s going to be my husband.’

      ‘My God,’ her father whispered. ‘Have you no shame? Is this all your upbringing—your education has taught you? To jump into bed at the first opportunity with some nobody—some ne’er do well?’

      ‘You’ve СКАЧАТЬ