In the Still of the Night

The room was too dark for him to see her. He crept forward to the bed; by the time he stood beside it his eyes were accustomed to the darkness. They focused on her hungrily.

Her bedclothes had fallen back a little. He first saw the white curve of her naked shoulder and her face.

Her body curled up in the foetal position, facing him, her blonde hair ruffled, partly hiding her face. She looked like a child, a little girl. One hand was flung out, palm upwards. Such a small hand, a child’s hand.

Christ, she’s lovely, he thought, mouth parted, breathing thickly. And she looked so innocent.

She couldn’t be, not any more. That wide-eyed childish innocence must be gone after years in show business, there were too many temptations in that world – but you would never know it from her face.

Anger stirred in him. What he’d been through because of her! His life ruined, everything taken away from him, including his future … all because of her.

He reached out and carefully lifted the bedclothes further back so that he could see more of her; angry eyes wandered up and down the soft, fallen body, breathing in and out with such innocent abandon; the nightdress had risen, leaving her legs bare to the thigh. Lace lay over her breasts, showing him soft white flesh, hard, pink nipples. His body tightened with desire.

Eight years he had waited. Eight years of waiting for this moment, living with the dream of getting her alone, where nobody could see or hear them and he could finally live his darkest fantasies.

He could do that now. He could fall on her there and then, while she was asleep, not even knowing he was there, so that she would wake up from her dreams to find him on her, in her, her body at his mercy.

His erection was hard and hot; he was breathing raggedly.

Yes. Why wait any longer? Why not end it now? But he hadn’t planned it that way, and he hesitated. He didn’t like changing his plans, he had taught himself to wait, to plan, to be patient. Impulses were dangerous. If you gave in to them, you usually ended up paying for it. He’d learnt to plan; then when the moment was ripe you had the intense satisfaction of doing what you had promised yourself you would.

No, he would go on with the game as he had planned it. He would have her soon.

He bent to put what he held on her pillow, and stayed still, breathing in – he could smell her, the warm smell of a woman’s body in sleep, in bed, as instantly evocative as the smell of new bread, and mingled with that her own personal fragrance, a light, flowery perfume from her skin, and the shampoo she must have used.

He bent closer, dying to put his tongue out and taste her. He could see the pores of her skin, a dusting of golden hairs on it as if she had a bodily halo. Bending even closer as if he was going to kiss her, he felt her warm breath on his cheek.

He was sweating, breathing much too fast, tempting himself beyond endurance, the torture sweet. One more inch and he would be touching her.

And then her lashes flickered. Was she waking up? He stiffened. She would see him, start screaming, and then he’d have to …

His fingers tightened on the rose he held and he started as one of the thorns on the long stem ran into him.

Damn! A drop of red blood oozed out, on his finger, and before he could stop it, fell, on to the pillow, right beside her head.

He stared at it rigidly; he hated the sight of blood, hated it and was fascinated by it.

There had been so much blood last time; it had taken him forever to wash it off himself, he had had to get rid of his clothes, burn them in the. garden hurriedly before anyone saw them. For months afterwards he had kept smelling it on his hands, on his clothes …

Next time, there would be no blood.

Annie was dreaming.

She was back in the forest house with Johnny, lying together in front of the fire; he was taking off her clothes, his hands stroking, sliding over her warm skin. Filled with languorous pleasure, she watched him, heard his breathing, hurrying, quickening, heard the flames licking up the chimney, saw a spark of red as a log cracked open, and then Johnny’s body was arching over her, strong, naked, dappled with firelight.

She wanted him so much. She reached up to put both arms around him and pull him down to her, and suddenly she saw his face, and it wasn’t Johnny, it was Roger Keats.

She cried out in horror and he laughed down at her, his red mouth open, coming down to clamp itself over hers, his tongue flickering out, as it had that night after Hamlet, when he deliberately kissed her in front of the whole audience, his tongue sliding in and out of her mouth like a snake.

She felt his hands, his naked body on her, heard his panting enjoyment and screamed, bucking and fighting to get rid of him. He dug his

nails into her bare shoulder.

Her eyes flew open. For a second she didn’t know where she was; then she took in her familiar room, full of grey light; it was morning. Weak with relief, she realised she had been having a nightmare.

But the pain had been real. She sat up, clutching her shoulder, and saw a long-stemmed red rose caught in the lacy neckline of her nightdress.

Where on earth had that come from?