Anne Mather - Castles Of Sand

Her coffee cooled as the realities of the situation dispelled her momentary euphoria. They were from different cultures, different civilisations. From an early age he would have been taught to regard women as secondary beings, created for man’s enjoyment and little else, expected always to defer to their masters, and obedient to their wishes. He would know that his grandfather had two wives, and even if Alain’s beliefs had been in opposition to his father’s, who was to say what those beliefs were now, or whether he too had not adopted the sexual morals of the rest of his family …

Her temples began to throb as she remained there on the couch, her knees drawn up under her, her head resting wearily against the soft cushions. Who would have dreamed when she awakened that morning that by lunchtime she would have suffered such a dramatic upheaval? She had made her life here, such as it was. She had made friends, she had a good job. Yet in the space of a morning it had all been destroyed, and she was left without peace or tranquillity, or hope.

She thrust the still full coffee cup on to the low table beside her and stretched her legs. Somehow she had to forget what had happened, she told herself severely. She had lived seven years without seeing her son; she might have to live another fifty years without doing so. Of course, there was always the chance that when Andrew got older he might start asking questions his grandfather and his uncle would not be able to answer, and then he might come looking for her himself. But that was an unlikely expectation to say the least, when for all she knew, Alain might have told him she was dead.

She closed her eyes against such a final denigration, then opened them again when someone knocked at her door. It was a peremptory tattoo, unlike her neighbour’s usual tap, but she couldn’t think of anyone other than Mrs Forest who might call at this time of day.

‘Coming,’ she called, sliding off the couch, and padding barefoot to the door. ‘You startled me,’ she was adding, as she lifted the latch, and then fell back in dismay when she recognised her visitor. ‘You!’ she breathed, pressing a hand to her throat. ‘Wh-what do you want? Why have you come here?’

‘An unnecessary question,’ remarked Alain flatly, stepping past her without invitation. ‘Why else would I come here, except to see you? Can you honestly say you did not expect me?’

‘Yes!’ Ashley strove for breath. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘I can honestly say that. Wh-why have you come here? Why should you want to see me?’

Alain turned in the centre of the floor, dark and forbidding in his charcoal grey attire. ‘Close the door, will you?’ he directed, flicking a careless hand, on the little finger of which a dragon’s eye ruby glinted balefully. ‘I do not propose to speak with you in sight and hearing of a crowd of inquisitive tenants.’

‘You flatter yourself,’ returned Ashley tensely, making no move to obey him. ‘And why should I allow you into my apartment? We—we have nothing to say to one another.’

‘I disagree,’ Alain argued smoothly, and with an arbitrary gesture he crossed the floor to her side, rescuing the handle of the door from her grasp and closing it firmly with a definite click.

‘You have no right to do this,’ Ashley protested, gazing up at him tremulously, but Alain did not acknowledge her indignation. As she struggled to compose herself, he returned to his position in the centre of the floor and suggested she take a seat.

‘This is my flat,’ Ashley declared, endeavouring to hide the tremor in her voice. ‘I’ll decide when or if I sit down, not you!’

‘As you wish.’ Alain’s mouth thinned. ‘You were always an argumentative creature. But what I have to say may make you change your mind, so be warned.’

Ashley took a deep breath. ‘You—you have a nerve, coming here, trying to tell me how to behave—–’

‘I do not propose to get involved in futile discussions of that sort,’ he interrupted her bleakly. ‘You and I have known one another too long to be in any doubt as to one another’s character, and—–’

‘We never knew one another!’ Ashley choked bitterly. ‘You didn’t know me, and it’s certain I never knew you!’

‘Please try not to be emotional,’ Alain advised her briefly, folding his arms across the waist-coated expanse of his chest. ‘I did not come here to argue the merits of our past relationships. Sufficient to say that you do not appear to have suffered by them. You are still as beautiful as ever—and no doubt duping some other poor fool, as you once did my brother!’

Ashley’s fingers stung across his cheek, almost before he had finished speaking, and she watched in horror as the marks she had made appeared on his dark skin. She waited in silent apprehension for him to retaliate in kind, as he had once done in the past, but apart from lifting a brown-fingered hand to finger his bruised cheek, he took no immediate retribution.

‘So,’ he said at last. ‘Now you have relieved yourself of such pent-up energy, perhaps we can now get to the point of my visit.’

‘What point?’ Ashley was sullen, as much from a sense of self-recrimination as from anything he had said. She had made a fool of herself, not him, by her childish display of temper, and it was up to her now to prove that she could be as controlled as he was.

‘Perhaps if you were to offer me a cup of coffee,’ he said, indicating her cup nearby. ‘Obviously I have interrupted you. If we were to behave more as—acquaintances than enemies—–’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Ashley’s nerve snapped again, and she turned away from him abruptly, feeling the hot tears stinging in her eyes. It was no use. She could not be unemotional about this, and she groped for a tissue to wipe away the evidence.

‘You are behaving foolishly,’ exclaimed Alain’s voice behind her, and in spite of her confusion at his sudden nearness, she thought she detected a trace of reluctant remorse in his tone. ‘I do not wish to resurrect old hatreds,’ he added roughly. ‘I only wish to speak with you, Ashley, to offer you my help.’

‘Your help ?’ Ashley spun round to face him then, tilting back her head so that she could look into his eyes. He had always been taller than she was, even though she was not a small girl, but barefoot as she was his advantage was greater. She gazed into those enigmatic blue eyes, so startlingly unusual in such an alien countenance, and her lips parted in disbelief. ‘You want to help me?’ she whispered, moving her head from side to side, and his long silky lashes drooped to narrow the pupils.

‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘That was my only intention. But you do not make good intentions easy.’

‘You? With good intentions?’ Ashley’s lips quivered. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Alain’s jaw hardened. ‘Have a care, Ashley. You have tried my patience once this afternoon. Do not push your luck. I may not be so lenient the second time around.’

Ashley held up her head. ‘Then go! I didn’t ask you to come here. I—I want nothing from the Gauthiers. Nothing!’

‘Nothing?’

‘Except perhaps—my son,’ she conceded almost inaudibly, and then winced when his hands closed on her shoulders, biting into the soft flesh, bruising the bone.

‘Do not say that again,’ he commanded harshly. ‘I told you this morning. Hussein is not your son. He has never been your son. He has been brought up to believe he is an orphan, that his mother died along with his father—–’

‘No,’ Ashley caught her breath, but Alain was merciless.

‘Yes,’ he declared grimly. ‘So far as Hussein is concerned, you do not exist. And you must not exist, is that understood?’