Robyn Donald - Element Of Risk

And then he thrust her from him and said jaggedly, ‘Get the hell out of here, you lying, promiscuous little slut. I don’t ever want to see you again.’

Perdita stared at him from beneath weighted eyelids. Her mouth was tender, slightly too big for its contours, and she was drunk on the taste of him, the scent of him, the feel of him.

Half her brain was shrieking foul, and the other half was cursing because she’d allowed herself to trip into the oldest snare in the world, but below these manifestations of logic lurked a consuming, primitive satisfaction.

‘You’re not going to get rid of me so easily,’ she said, her voice husky and sensual. ‘Like it or not, Luke, you can’t bludgeon me with your money and your power. I mean to see those girls, and there is no way you can watch them so strictly that I won’t.’

His hands were shaking. She watched with awed fascination as he reimposed control, a fascination that had a basis of fear, because she knew what he wanted to do with them.

‘Yes,’ he said when he saw her glance at them, ‘you should be afraid. Get out of here, Perdita, before I do something you might regret.’

‘I’m staying at the Dunromin motel in Manley,’ she told him, and turned and walked away from him through the big, gracious, empty house, out into the sunlight. Constrained by the silk scarf bound around her head, her temples throbbed painfully. She put up a long-fingered hand to draw it off, and with a slow movement shook the flood of hair back.

Tension still ached through her, but she wasn’t going to stretch herself free of it here, where he might be watching. She knew why he had kissed her; it was an unsubtle punishment because she was alive and Natalie was dead. He hadn’t been able to hit back at fate, or cry his despair at the moon, so he had done what men had done to women ever since the world began: used his superior strength and turned anger into sexuality.

She was, she realised with a strange sort of detachment, still shuddering inside, but at least the worst was over. She had seen him. Now all she had to do was find the children.

This voyage into the past had assumed all the qualities of a search for the holy grail. When she saw the children she would know, she was sure, whether they were happy or not.

And if they were happy, that would be it. She’d get into the car and drive away…

Although, sooner or later natural curiosity would drive them to search for their birth mother. Surely, some tempter whispered, that discovery would be less traumatic if she were not a complete stranger. Of course she would never be a substitute for Natalie, but she might make some small place for herself in her children’s lives.

Luke had no right to keep her away from her children. Apart from anything else, he’d behaved very badly, insulting her, manhandling her, kissing her…

The idea was far too enticing. Even as she reminded herself sternly that she had promised Luke she wouldn’t interfere, she knew she was going to consult a lawyer.

Back at the motel she made herself a cup of tea and sat down. Her hand came to rest on the locket around her neck. With a sudden, swift movement she flicked through her purse and found the one photograph she had of her children, a coloured snap one of the nurses had taken of them when they were a week old.

The young Perdita sat stiffly, holding the two babies with such care that she looked terrified, staring straight at the camera. They were both girls, one thirty minutes older than the other, but even then it had been obvious that they were not identical. She had called them Tara and Melissa.

They were asleep; she had crept into the nursery and taken them outside for the photograph. Her eyes looked glazed because she had been fighting back tears. The next day she had left the nursing home, and the couple who had adopted her children had come and taken them away.

How would she have felt if she had known they were Natalie, whom she loved with the hero-worship of a neglected child, and Luke?

It was better that she hadn’t known. It would never have worked. She’d been far too young to cope with the situation.

She wasn’t, she thought wryly, coping too well with it now, and it was five months since Frank’s call.

The colours in the photograph had faded, but she could remember everything about her children, even their faint scent of baby powder and milk and innocence. A resurgence of the old pain gnawed at her. She had never forgotten, not a thing.

And Luke Dennison was not going to stand in her way. He had money and power, but she had money too, and the power of her threat. Although she hadn’t any intention of contacting the media—she knew how badly hurt its victims could be—it was a threat she could hold over his head.

She was going to see her daughters.

Refusing to think of the way he had kissed her, the angry manifestation of his power used to intimidate her, she drank the cup of tea before ringing an Auckland number.

Frank whistled when she told him what she wanted him to do. ‘I told you not to tell him. You can’t trust people when it comes to children. Any ideas?’

‘Try Mrs Bennet, Mrs Philip Bennet. She used to live in Epsom—I’m almost certain it was Owens Road. She’s the grandmother. Oh, and can you give me the name and address of that solicitor you were recommending— the one who specialises in family law.’

‘Yup.’ He didn’t say again that he’d told her so, but she heard it in the monosyllable.

She scribbled down the name and address he gave her, said goodbye and hung up, then turned to look around her. The room was small and sparsely furnished in motel style, with furniture that didn’t fit her long legs and body. The rush of adrenalin that had sustained her so far faded slowly, leaving her melancholy and thoughtful.

Setting her mouth, she went out into the street and called into the florist’s shop. They weren’t busy so the woman made her a posy of cottage flowers while she waited, looking at her curiously when she thought she was unobserved.

After Perdita had paid for them she said in a rush, ‘You know, you look awfully like that model—the Adventurous Woman.’

Perdita gave her a warm smile. ‘I’m retired, now,’ she said.

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘You came from around here, didn’t you?’

‘I used to spend holidays here with my cousin.’

‘Mrs Dennison at Pigeon Hill.’ She sighed. ‘That was a tragedy. She was a lovely lady.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, well, you must be noticing quite a few changes in the last ten years.’

Perdita smiled again. ‘Quite a few. The place has grown.’

‘Are you planning on living here?’

Until that moment the thought had never occurred to Perdita. She said vaguely, ‘No, I don’t think so,’ but as she walked out of the shop the idea took root and on the way down the hill to the cemetery it flourished. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than to live close to her daughters.

But would it be fair to them?

And how would Luke deal with that? At the thought of his reaction her skin prickled. He was a bad enemy.

The little graveyard had served the district well for over a hundred years. Perdita walked across newly mown grass sheltered by the huge old puriri and totara trees that made a dense barrier around the perimeter. It was very quiet and still.

Natalie’s headstone was plain and austere. With wet eyes Perdita read that she was the beloved wife of Luke, loved mother of Olivia and Rosalind, aged thirty-seven years.

Stooping, Perdita put her flowers with the others there. Death was so final, so impersonally unfair, when it carried off those who were young and good and happy.

She turned away, only then seeing through the sparkle of tears the tall, powerful figure of the man who had made Natalie so happy. Damn, she thought, suddenly exhausted by emotion. Why did he have to come here now?