Today, Tomorrow and Forever Read online

  Before she could answer a voice from the terrace transfixed them to the spot.

  'So there you are,' it rasped with undisguised venom. 'I might have guessed!'

  As if she was having a bad dream, Shanna lifted her head from Paul's shoulder to find her startled glance riveted by the sight of a furious thin face gazing in at them from the terrace. Dark hair hung around the woman's shoulders, blown in disarray by the night wind, her eyes, glittering with hate, boring into Shanna's love-bleared ones.

  Slowly, as if it was physical pain to separate, they moved apart, linked only by his hand still grasping her tightly around the waist.

  It burned with the guilt of something forbidden under the possessive eye of his wife.

  'What are you doing here?' he asked dully, as if finding it difficult to make sense of her presence.

  'Sorry to surprise you, darling!' she spat. 'How sad! Next time you're entertaining one of your whores, perhaps you'll warn me?'

  With a sound like a snarl issuing from between her teeth, she spun furiously and ran off into the darkness.

  'Rowanna!' Paul dropped his hand from round Shanna's waist and took two strides towards the terrace before coming to a halt. Slowly he spun to face her. For a moment silence hung between them.

  Then Shanna found her voice. With a contemptuous look at his ashen face, she said, 'So you'd be overjoyed if she ever came up here, would you, Mr Elliot? I can see that. Your delight is obvious!'

  Then, with as much dignity as she could display, she spun on her heel and, forcing herself not to run, walked straight from the room.

  As she turned to close the door behind her, she saw Paul stand for a moment, then, with a kind of curse, he plunged off into the night after the fleeing figure of his wife.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As Paul had observed, the wind was beginning to drop, and by morning it had disappeared altogether, leaving a glittering sun dancing on the calmest of blue seas. Once again the air was fresh and clear, the island at its most beautiful.

  Shanna, dry-eyed, finished her packing and stood for one last time at the window, gazing out at the elegant curve of the terrace, the turquoise pool, the picture-book palms.

  Soon she would be gone for good.

  Making sure everything was as she had found it, she picked up her bag and left the room.

  Arthur had told her that the mail-boat would be passing as soon as the weather improved. Now, with a hastily scribbled thank-you note to Katerina and a promise to them both that she would sign over the bill of sale as soon as her solicitor in London had had a look at it, she made her way as quietly as she could to the small harbour where she had been dropped off a lifetime ago.

  Her departure went unnoticed, and soon she was hitching a lift on the back of a petrol bike driven by a young man she met on the boat, and after that it was the bus from Santa Eulalia to the main port, another ferry, another bus, and then, at last, a stand-by back to Heathrow.

  It was dawn by the time she looked down over the endless roofs of London's suburbs as the plane homed in through random cotton-wool clouds, and she couldn't help feeling that her own searing unhappiness must be reflected a thousand times in the hearts of the tiny inhabitants she could see scurrying about below. But it didn't make the agony any the less.

  In the Ladies she noticed with surprise how fresh-faced she looked; pale, perhaps, eyes a little darker than usual, but cool, composed, lips as always seeming to curve ready for laughter. How deceptive appearances are, she thought wryly, feeling a shudder of nausea wrench her guts when the thought she was fighting to keep at bay slammed through her yet again. Quickly drying her hands, she hurried out into the concourse. As soon as she was safely back home she need never think of Spain again. Once she was back in the thick of things at work, Paul would rapidly become a memory, as insubstantial as the holiday snapshots that decorated the walls of the office.

  Needless to say, he hadn't returned that night after the dreadful intrusion by his wife, and it was obvious what interpretation she was supposed to put on that. Nothing could be clearer. But it hadn't been like that, she told herself, hurrying through the concourse. It hadn't been like that for her. What Paul thought would be reflected in the views of his wife. That hurt. But she knew her own integrity was intact. As for trusting him—she'd shown the folly of trusting him; now she would never trust again.

  She had been back five days when a letter arrived with a Parisian postmark. It was from Paul, and he simply said he would be in London towards the end of the month, naming a specific date. Shanna promptly arranged to be out of town, and when she returned on the Monday morning there was a single long-stemmed rose on the doormat and a terse card: 'Where were you?' with his sprawling signature which she had seen only once before. She stared at it for a long time, wondering how a handwriting expert would analyse it, curious to know if treachery could be detected in the sloping curves of the letters.

  Dee had managed to prise the gist of what had happened out of her, though over that last humiliating evening Shanna had drawn a careful veil.

  'It didn't work out,' she had admitted, playing it down as much as possible, and now, not knowing all the facts, Dee urged her to get in touch with him.

  'There is absolutely no point whatsoever in getting in touch with a man I thoroughly despise,' she announced. 'There would be no future with him, Dee. He's like a million other married men—he wants to have his cake and eat it. Well, fair enough, I'm not making judgements. All I know is, I'm not going to be his bit of crumpet on the side!' She tried to laugh; but the sound rapidly turned into something too much like a sob and she had to make some excuse to go into the bathroom. When she emerged ten minutes later, Dee didn't pursue the subject.

  Three letters arrived over the next fortnight. All of them Shanna threw, unopened, into the bin. Each time she saw the familiar blue airmail envelope on the mat she felt her heart begin to bleed afresh, but after failing to reply to any of them and several days went by without one she felt an extra twist of agony to think that at last he had given up and all ties were severed for good.

  It was Friday evening. Shanna had a long weekend ahead. Dee was spending a few days with friends in the country and, declining the invitation on her own behalf, Shanna had explained that she wanted to redecorate her room. Methodically starting to get rid of everything that existed 'before Paul', including clothes and the paperback she had been reading on the flight over, she hoped to be able to purge the memory of him forever. Now she was going to revamp her whole image, starting with her bedroom.

  As she hurried along the main road she heard footsteps behind her, then someone grasped hold of the shopping-bag she was carrying and, thinking it was a mugger—though what they wanted with her shopping she couldn't imagine—she half-turned, one hand raised to defend herself. It was caught neatly in mid-air, swinging her round to face her would-be assailant. Their two bodies collided with an impact that knocked the breath from her.

  'You!' She would have fallen if he hadn't been holding her so tightly. 'Paul Elliot, let me go! I've nothing to say to you!' she ground out when she got over the shock of seeing him.

  'Tough, because I've got something to say to you.' He gripped her arm fiercely, glowering down at her, face rigid with anger.

  'Let me go!' she cried weakly, feeling the familiar feeling sweep over her, weakening her resolve to tear him verbally if not physically to pieces. 'I don't want you, Paul! Take your hands off me!'

  His face was taut with emotion, the eyes storm-blue, gazing intently into her face as if he wanted to memorise every last detail. 'You may not want me --' His words tailed off. Slowly he released her and with space between them the tension lessened and Paul said quite calmly, 'Let's not stand about in this cold. Can't we go to the flat?'

  She tightened her lips, feeling she should refuse and tell him to go to hell, but instead she found herself giving him a curt nod and striding out briskly ahead of him, leaving him to follow behind with the shopping-bag, which he still held
in his hand.

  It was only five minutes to the flat, and she went round, switching on lights, taking the bag from him without a word, dumping it in the kitchen, then, still in her coat, coming through to switch on the fire, saying without looking at him, 'I suppose you'd like a cup of coffee or something?'

  'The "or something" would be preferable. Look, see what I've brought you.' He reached into an inner pocket and drew out a bottle of the brandy they had been drinking the first evening they met.

  Without commenting, Shanna fetched two glasses and, still silent, poured a drop into each.

  'There's no point in this,' she muttered before he could say anything and as soon as she had taken a sip and felt the liquid fire warm through her. Carefully placing the glass so she would have to think before reaching out for it, she went to sit on a stool as far from him as possible.

  Even though she knew what she felt about him, she couldn't deny he was still lethally attractive. His blond hair was the same as ever, with that little bit at the front that somehow always seemed to stick up. And his eyes—God, his eyes, she thought desperately, still the same lazy blue, glittering over me as if he's going to take me and --

  'I'm not what your wife said I was. It's not true!' she burst out, desperate to correct any impression he might have that she was willing to give in to him just because he'd made the effort to show up.

  'I don't know what she said. She said a hell of a lot that night, most of it best forgotten. I only wish you hadn't left so suddenly next morning. Shanna, don't you realise we could have saved ourselves weeks of hell?'

  'What do you mean, hell? The last few weeks have been fine, haven't they?' She raised her chin.

  'Have they? Have they really?' His voice shook.

  'As far as I'm concerned, yes. Couldn't have been better.'

  'Shanna, do you mean that?' Still standing, he came a pace towards her. 'I can't believe you. I'm not going to believe you until you tell me to leave and never see you again.' He paused. 'You only have to say the word.' He paused again. 'Well?'

  She bit her lip. It seemed as if everything was rushing away in one screaming storm of pain, all the memories tormenting her soul over the last few weeks pouring back in a flood, a hundred times worse, threatening to go on for eternity in an agony of unbearable longing. If she let him go . . . Her eyes sought and found his. If she let him go . . , She took two paces across the room.

  Then they were in each other's arms, his lips branding their message of desire on to her own. When she lifted her eyelids she was astonished to see beads of moisture in the corners of his eyes.

  'Paul, I'm scared. I can't bear the thought of seeing you leave, but I can't give in either --'

  she gasped. 'It goes against everything I believe, to make love with another woman's husband.' She raised her stricken glance to his. Her face was stark white, like someone at a road accident. She felt his hands slip away from her and he was stepping back. 'I can't --' She clasped her hands together and twisted them helplessly. He would leave. He would go forever. She would never see him again. Never . . .

  'No!' With a wounded cry she flung herself into his arms. 'I don't care, oh, darling, my love, my love. You're here, and that's all that matters. Paul, please never leave me. Please, Paul. I love you so much. I hate you, but I love you and I just can't help myself. I want to be with you, come what may.'

  'It's all right, Shanna. I told you that you could trust me.' He stroked her hair, pressing hot kisses against her forehead. She could feel their two hearts bumping like two animals trying to break free. It felt safe in his arms, as it had always done. She couldn't believe it was wrong. Yet she knew it was and felt she had stepped over into a world where nothing was certain any more.

  Her eyes were frightened. 'I know you'll tire of me and go back to her. Oh, Paul, why am I being such a fool?'

  He held her face between his two hands. 'You're not foolish, my sweet darling. And now I know you love me. To choose me and forget your principles—Shanna, do you really think I would let you do a thing like that? You would hate yourself within a few short weeks. And then you would begin to hate me.'

  'What do you mean?' she whispered, fear that he was going to leave her anyway clutching at her heart.

  'I mean, you silly idiot, that I'm not married any more. A state I hope soon to rectify. Shanna, when will you marry me?'

  'What? But --'

  'If you'd only stayed a little longer that morning instead of running away, it could all have been put right. I take it you didn't bother to read any of my letters?'

  'No. I --' She tried to smile, lips trembling, a bewildered expression in her eyes. 'I'm afraid I threw them in the bin. I thought—I thought it would be too painful to read the lies you'd written. I wanted to remember you as you seemed when I first met you.'

  'You might have given me the benefit of the doubt. But you never did believe me when I told you it was over between Rowanna and me, did you?'

  She shook her head.

  Taking her by the hand, he led her to the sofa, saying, 'Come, let's talk. It's long overdue.'

  Safely snuggled in his arms, she let him tell her what had happened. 'I was utterly amazed to see Rowanna at the villa. She hadn't been up there for months. It was one of her problems: sometimes she could walk quite happily all over the island, other times she'd say she couldn't manage it and for weeks she wouldn't venture further than the edge of the terrace. If anyone insisted, she would show all the symptoms of a panic attack. It was all genuine. She couldn't help it. The specialist diagnosed it as agoraphobia.'

  'But how did it start?' Shanna's sympathies were at once aroused. How could Paul contemplate leaving Rowanna when she needed him so much? She eyed him warily, unable to believe he could treat anyone as callously as that.

  'It started,' he told her, 'with a car accident.' He frowned. 'I was driving. She was horribly injured, suffering terrible scars. She's now ready to have plastic surgery, but it was her agoraphobia that has so far made proper treatment possible. She adamantly refused to fly to London to see the surgeon. I'm told there will be no visible signs afterwards. Everything has been made worse by her feeling of wanting to hide herself away.'

  'I can understand how she must feel. It must, be dreadful. Poor Rowanna --'

  'Yes, it's been tough.' Paul seemed unsympathetic despite his words, and again Shanna was surprised. 'The island was the perfect hideaway,' he explained. 'A good place in which to convalesce. But she used it to avoid getting better. Maybe the accident was more traumatic in that sense for her than it was for me—it seemed to make her afraid of people. She wanted to go out less and less. Understandable, I suppose, knowing how beautiful she had once been.'

  'But it must have been horrible for her,' exclaimed Shanna again. 'You're not showing much sympathy for her --'

  'I'm afraid she exhausted my sympathy long ago.' His face closed up and the blue eyes became as bleak as winter. 'Maybe I'm an unfeeling bastard,' he muttered through tight lips. 'How do I know? I only know what I feel. And why.'

  He gave her a sardonic glance. 'How did we get into all this? I've no wish to try to explain about Rowanna or why she acts the way she does. All I know is, she gave me a shock when she turned up like that. She hadn't stirred from her villa for weeks. Then you stormed out before I could say anything. I was torn between two she-devils!'

  'And you chose her.' Shanna got to her feet as if to pour them both another brandy, but in reality she wanted to move away so she could think. Sitting in Paul's arms on the sofa was a hindrance.

  After she handed him his glass she went to sit on the arm of a chair on the other side of the room.

  'This is all very sudden, Paul. Do you really mean you are divorced?'

  He nodded.

  'It might take me some time to get used to it.' She looked at the toe of her shoe. Did she really know this man, after all? How could a relationship last for long when she had doubts about his humanity? The sort of people she admired weren't like this. They wouldn
't leave someone in the lurch the moment they became ill. Especially when the illness was directly caused by their own actions.

  Paul's face had gone a paler shade and, throwing back his drink, he rose to his feet. 'Shanna?' He came over, trapping her against the back of the sofa with a hand on each side of her, not touching, but so close she could see the tiny maze of laugh lines around his eyes. 'I'm staying in town for a few days,' he told her. 'I had to bring her over to see her specialist in Harley Street. We're staying at the Ritz. Arthur tells me you said you'd sign the deed of sale, accepting my offer. If you would care to come over to the hotel tomorrow we can sort everything out. At the same time it'll give you space in which to think. I don't want to rush you, darling . . .' He brought one hand up and lifted her chin, then with a measured slowness placed his lips on her own, releasing her at the point where it seemed he might go beyond the point of no return. He straightened.

  'Come in whenever you like,' he invited, voice roughening. 'Come to breakfast. I'll be waiting.'

  When he reached the door he said, 'I'll always be waiting, Shanna. I'll wait for as long as it takes.'

  When the door closed behind him Shanna poured herself another brandy, drinking it with shaking fingers, her mind a turmoil of contradictory thoughts. His coldness was something she didn't understand. Should she be sensible and reject him, after going through such an agony of separation? Or should she shut her eyes to the fact that he had a rather callous side to his nature? If he hadn't told her so frankly about his feelings for Rowanna she would have persisted in her good opinion of him even now, for he seemed warm, loving, caring on the surface. It was difficult to believe he was really otherwise.

  Troubled by such thoughts, she spent a haphazard evening doing nothing very much, the need to make a decision, to bring her feelings into line with her judgement, making her restless and unable to settle to anything. Her night was tormented by dreams of a nightmarish aspect, Paul's beloved face turning at one point into an ugly mask, hate-filled and threatening.