KIM LAWRENCE - Passionate Retribution

‘You know I loathe it,’ she contradicted him. ’that’s why you do it.’

He gave her a sardonic look, his startling eyes as blue as a beneficent summer day and as sharp as jagged ice. ‘Going back to my brilliance,’ he said smoothly, and she wished fervently that she could penetrate that hateful composure.

Almost in flashback, a picture of him crouched with yells and smoke all around him, bullets singing through the air, recording the events going on around him economically but lucidly as if he weren’t in danger of joining the reporter whose blood he was calmly staunching as he spoke, came into her mind. That had been Luke’s first time in front of the camera rather than behind it, but not his last: the powers that be hadn’t needed the public response to the incident to know a good thing when they saw it. After that Luke had been seen reporting from various trouble-spots scattered across the globe, but his first love had always been photography and he had never abandoned it.

It had been a job as a photographer on a daily newspaper that Luke had taken in preference to the job her father had offered him after university. When the opportunity had arisen, he had accepted the challenge of moving to the live medium, working for an independent new station. Her father, who had hated Luke’s effortless progression, had found his anonymity behind the lens easier to bear than the public recognition that had come when he’d stepped to the other side of the camera. She had seen him accept congratulations of his famous relative with gritted teeth, knowing nothing would have pleased him more than if Luke had failed miserably in every venture he began. He had hardly been able to contain his fury when Luke had had a book of his stills published; not content to concentrate on one thing, he seemed to be able to shine in several skies at the same time. The political thrillers which followed had brought acclaim and monetary rewards as they’d lingered indecently long in the bestseller lists. Her father had simmered, and Emily had thought he had grown almost inured to Luke’s ability to juggle several careers and give the impression that he was only using a small portion of his talent. She felt a mixture of envy and admiration, but at that moment she shared a portion of her parent’s frustration. He was so impervious, it made her want to stamp her feet!

‘I think you’re inhuman,’ she announced.

‘It’s rather perverse of you to attack me…your saviour.’ He raised one eyebrow as she choked. ‘And hardly a word about pretty boy’s infamy,’ he remarked thoughtfully. ‘As I’ve been trying to tell you, I am going up to my cottage in Scotland to do some work on my book.’

‘I didn’t know you had a cottage in Scotland,’ she said, surprised.

‘Why should you?’ he said in a tone that made her flush. ‘You can come with me.’

‘Thanks but no, thanks,’ she retorted without thought.

‘I can see the brain is overloaded again,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You can disappear with me for a decent interval and then reappear having seen me for what I am, or whatever story you care to invent. I favour the wild passion which burnt fiercely but briefly, but I leave the details to you.’

‘You do surprise me,’ she said, bristling. ‘Do I actually have any say in the matter? I don’t like being organised, in fact I hate it,’ she hissed from between clenched teeth. She had absolutely no intention of going further than the end of the drive in Luke’s company. He had extracted her from the immediate situation—she just needed time to think. One thing she didn’t need—in fact the very thought made her feel a surge of undiluted panic—was to spend any more time with Luke.

‘I know you prefer to do the organising, but look where that’s landed you. Bossy women are not universally admired.’

She drew herself up to her full height and eyed him balefully. ‘I’m so sorry I’m not a feminine, fluttery female,’ she intoned sarcastically. ‘You sexist pig! I take it it’s all right for you to order me around? I’m supposed to be meekly submissive.’

‘Meekly submissive is not the way I’d have described you, Emily,’ he said drily. ‘I was just trying to drop a hint or two. You’re not exactly subtle, are you? And as for my suggestion, it was just that. I don’t care whether you take me up on it,’ he announced negligently, as though he was beginning to be bored by the whole conversation. ‘It seemed the logical step to take, and if you can type or file you might even be useful,’ he added thoughtfully.

Not if I can help it, she thought bitterly. ‘You’ll be able to torment Father for a little longer—I expect that’s the main appeal.’

Luke gave a sudden grin, devilish lights reflected in his eyes. ‘I gather you have a few reasons to be less than happy with Daddy, Em. The thought had occurred to me that Charlie will be tormented by images of sordid goings-on in the heather.’

Emily felt the colour seep beneath her skin, his words had conjured up an image so shocking and unexpected. Luke was staring at her, his expression broodingly speculative. She registered the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the shadow of stubble that covered his cheeks and jaw. It gave him an air of attractive dissipation, although she knew it probably just indicated incipient exhaustion. Luke kept himself in superb condition; he couldn’t survive at the pace he set himself if he didn’t exhibit some self-control. She was thinking along the lines of exercise and diet… Women, that was another matter. Did her cousin usually take women up to his Scottish retreat? If he did, did he expect…? Her eyes opened wide in sudden sharp alarm.

‘Are you actually suggesting that we—?’ She broke off, searching for the correct terminology to cover this problem.

‘I’m anxious to inflict some mental anguish of a severe degree on your family, Emily, but I’m not willing to exert myself that much, infant.’

The swing of her arm was pure reflex. She registered the darkening mark along his cheek, wondering if he would retaliate. He appeared quite unmoved by her tears and she was furious with her uncontrollable response.

‘You always were a bully.’

‘And you were always a pampered brat,’ he replied dispassionately. She froze when he grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes. ‘You were always trying to get attention, I seem to recall.’

She tried to jerk away, a hot denial on her lips.

‘You have a very selective memory, infant. Oh, I quite forgot, you’re a mature woman these days,’ he drawled mockingly. ’strange, I doubt that—despite outer appearances.’ His unoccupied hand rose to trace carelessly the outline of her breast from the fabriccovered under-curve to the bare upper slope.

The casual intimacy induced an instantaneous physical response of her flesh, which she endured with confused misery. She swallowed a constnction in her dry throat, aware of the rasp of fabric against her sensitised flesh. The bodice of her dress seemed suddenly painfully tight.

‘The sort of attentions you gave me were delightful interludes. Like throwing me in the lake in November.’ She breathed deeply, regaining a little equilibrium now that his hand was no longer in contact with her flesh, even though his cool fingers seemed to have left an imprint like a brand on her skin. ‘Or pushing my face in the dirt,’ she added, warming to her theme. ‘And—’

‘All of which were preferable to indifference.’

He must have seen the dawning of awareness flicker in her eyes.

‘Y-you were incredibly awful to me,’ she faltered.

‘I believe the punishment usually fitted the crime.’

‘Children may have few rights to speak of,’ she replied, barely coping with an odd breathlessness that was afflicting her, ‘but I’m an independent agent now. And I have no intention of going anywhere with you except away from the immediate precincts of Charlcot.’