Caroline Anderson - Anyone Can Dream

‘Charlotte.’ His voice was softly reproachful. ‘I’m not going to accuse you of anything, and you certainly don’t need to run anywhere. You can walk away from me at any time.’

She didn’t believe him. Experience, she had found, was the best teacher, and when it came to escape she was very experienced.

Except usually she had had the sense to do it long before this point.

Only once before had she failed to escape, and she had paid the price for years. In many ways she was still paying it, and probably always would.

She backed away.

‘I—I need a drink,’ she said feebly, and, turning swiftly, she almost ran back into the conservatory.

He didn’t follow her, but left her, curled up on the chair among the squashy cushions, facing firmly down the garden, her thoughts in turmoil. Her body was still throbbing, aching with a need she hadn’t known she could feel, and she clutched the cold glass like a lifeline.

After a few minutes she heard him come up behind her and touch her gently on the shoulder.

‘Charlotte?’

She stiffened. ‘Yes?’

‘Supper’s ready. I thought we could eat it out here, if you like.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Supper?’

‘Come on.’

He helped her up, holding her when the pins and needles stabbed her feet where she had sat on them, and with an understanding smile he led her to the table in the kitchen. The food was spread out—cold meats, dressed salads, a huge bowl of frilly lettuce, chunks of crusty brown bread, a big block of pale yellow butter—and she stared at it blankly.

‘Charlotte, what is it?’ he asked softly.

She looked up at him, at the blue eyes searching her face, the broad, strong brow furrowed slightly in concern, the mouth, so gentle and yet so powerful, the instrument of her downfall.

‘It’s you,’ she said bluntly.

‘I’m not a threat.’

‘Yes, you are—to me.’

He shook his head. ‘No. It’s something else. Something old that’s still hurting you.’

Hurting? Yes, she supposed it was. ‘I’m divorced,’ she blurted out.

‘And?’ he coaxed.

Her shoulders twitched in a little shrug. ‘He was a pig. I find it difficult to relate to men.’

‘Did he knock you about?’

She laughed, the sound high and strained. ‘He didn’t need to. There’s more than one form of abuse.’

He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. Reaching for her, he turned her silently into his arms and enfolded her in a wordless hug of comfort.

‘Poor, poor girl,’ he said finally, and his hand smoothed over her hair, as if she were a hurt child. She felt his lips press against her head, the gentle gesture strangely soothing, and her arms slid round his sides and hung on.

He felt so good—big, safe, like a rock in the crazy world of her see-sawing emotions.

He held her like that for ages, till she was calm again—although not perfectly calm, because underneath she could still feel that raw, untamed need simmering gently, just waiting for another excuse to leap into life.

She gently disentangled herself from his arms, and turned away.

‘Here.’

She found a pristine handkerchief in her fingers, and was amazed to realise she had been crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Come on, let’s eat and go and watch this film, then if you like we can talk about it.’

‘It?’

‘Yes, it. Whatever it is that’s eating you up inside.’

Strangely the thought of talking to him didn’t frighten her any more. It would almost be a relief to share the nightmare at last—or part of it. Some—the worst bit—was hers and hers alone.

That she would never share.

The meal was delicious, and the video of three water births was fascinating, although she cut herself off deliberately from the emotion. They watched it twice, talking through it the second time, and then he turned off the television and handed her a file.

‘All sorts of bits and pieces—press cuttings, extracts from journals—have a browse while I make the coffee.’

She did, finding the research information fascinating, and when William came back into the room she was totally engrossed. She read to the end, then set the file down and looked up to find him watching her, a curious expression on his face.

He patted the sofa beside him. ‘Come and sit here and drink your coffee, and tell me all about yourself.’

She laughed awkwardly. ‘All?’

He grinned. ‘Well, some, then.’

‘Can’t I stay here?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t kiss you when you’re sitting there.’

She stood up, her heart thumping, and walked across the dimly lit room.

‘Here.’

He turned sideways so that one leg was against the back of the sofa and pulled her gently into the V of his thighs, so that her back was cradled against his chest and his arms rested lightly across her waist.

‘Now—tell me all about this rat who hurt you so badly.’

‘Greg?’

‘Was that his name?’

She nodded. ‘He was OK at first, I suppose. I was very naive—an only child, and my mother died when I was young. I didn’t think there was anything odd about waiting on him hand and foot—it was something I’d always done for my father, and it seemed natural to carry on.’

‘But?’

She shrugged. ‘He never seemed to appreciate anything. At least my father had been grateful for my efforts in the house, but Greg criticised everything I did. The cooking, the cleaning, the ironing, even——’

‘Yes?’

She ran out of courage. ‘Nothing.’

He sighed, a soft puff of breath that teased the hair on the back of her neck and sent shivers down her spine.

‘Don’t tell me—the bastard called you frigid.’

She stiffened, the word still jabbing through her like a knife.

‘Oh, Charlotte …’ His hands slid up her arms, coming to rest on her shoulders. ‘Poor, poor baby,’ he murmured, and she felt his thumbs working deeply in the muscles of her neck, soothing, easing the tension. She dropped her head forward and let him touch her, then gradually the touch changed, growing less soothing, more sensuous. He turned her in his arms, so that her side rested against his chest, and one hand tipped her chin up so that she was facing him.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he said softly, and then his head came down and his lips settled against hers.

The desire was back, sharp and shocking as before, but this time she was helpless to pull away. Instead she reached for him, winding her arms around his neck and tunnelling her fingers through the soft, thick hair at his nape. She felt a hand, warm and strong but gentle, cup her breast, and she arched against it, a little cry rising in her throat. His fingers were against her skin somehow, inside the blouse, under her bra, working the sensitive nub of her nipple to an aching peak.

His mouth left hers, trailing hot, steamy kisses over her neck and throat, down over the slight swell of her breast to close over the tender bud of flesh. She cried out, clutching his head and holding it close, and he made a guttural sound of satisfaction, switching his attention to the other aching breast that was clamouring for his attention.

Her breath was sobbing now, the sensation so exquisite that she was almost beyond reason.

‘William,’ she moaned, reaching for him, and he turned so that she was under him, stretched full-length on the sofa, his legs locked with hers as his mouth returned to claim her lips again.

She arched against him, her body now beyond her control. In the distance she could hear her voice pleading, but the words were meaningless. Her blouse was open now, and she tugged at his shirt, ripping the buttons in her haste.