Walking in Darkness

‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes flew open, alarm in them.

Without answering, he carried her to the bed and laid her down on it, going down with her, leaning over her to kiss her again. His face had filled with hot blood.

Desire had hit him with the force of a tidal wave, tearing him from the moorings of common sense and reason, carrying him into wilder regions than any he had ever visited. He had never wanted any woman this badly, so badly he was feverish and couldn’t think straight.

He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor, his hands shaking as he pushed up the thin, ribbed cotton sweater, slid his hands inside it, caressing her naked midriff, the smooth, soft skin clinging to his fingers.

‘No,’ she said, suddenly pushing at his shoulders. ‘No.’

Steve lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes dark with need. She stared into those eyes and fell silent as she read his feelings in his face.

‘The first time I saw you, I wanted to make love to you,’ he whispered. ‘You’re beautiful, Sophie.’

‘Thank you, but don’t bother with the compliments,’ she tartly said, wriggling from under him, sliding off the bed until she could stand up. ‘Sorry, but I’m not the easy lay you seem to hope I am.’

He sat up, flushed and furious. ‘For God’s sake . . . what on earth gives you the idea I think that?’

‘You accused me of being Gowrie’s mistress. You think anyone can get me into bed.’

He was urgent to get her back into his arms, but he realized he wouldn’t now and his blood began to cool. Flatly, he said, ‘I never said that! I didn’t think it, either.’

‘Oh, yes, you did, Mr Colbour

ne, and I didn’t like it. Get out of here, will you?’ Sophie was completely in control now. She zipped up her jeans, pulling down her sweater, turning angry, darkened eyes on him. ‘I shall start counting to ten – if you aren’t out of here by the time I’ve finished I’ll start screaming next.’

Steve got up reluctantly, his tie hanging loose, his shirt half-out of his trousers, and straightened his clothes. ‘You’re wrong about me, Sophie,’ he said flatly. ‘OK, I want to make love to you, but I don’t think you’re a pushover. Say no, if you like, but say it for the right reasons – because you don’t want to go to bed with me, not because you have the wrong idea about my motives or my opinion of you.’

‘Did you treat Cathy Gowrie that way? Did you try to get her into bed almost the minute you met her?’ Asking that question made her realize with a shock of disbelief that she was jealous – but how could she be jealous of Anya, who she had come so far to find, had been aching to meet at last? Her own emotions bewildered and scared her. How could you feel so many contradictory reactions at once?

He slowly turned, running a hand over his ruffled dark hair, walked towards her with the silent lope of a hunter, his long body graceful and deadly.

She stiffened, alarm leaping into her throat.

He paused and looked down at her, his eyes angry. ‘Forget everything I said about Cathy Gowrie – do you hear me? Forget I ever mentioned her.’

‘Have you forgotten her?’ she threw back with the force of the jealousy she felt, and saw his face quiver.

He stared into her blue eyes fixedly, then suddenly smiled. ‘I’ve known Cathy most of my life, since we were both kids. I’ll never forget her, how could I? I’m very fond of her. But I’m not in love with her.’

She watched him, wondering if he was lying, but not knowing because she didn’t know him well enough.

He stared back at her, his face calm now, then moved away, walked over to the table and picked up the buff envelope he had dropped there. ‘I brought these to show you.’ He tipped them out on the polished surface; they fanned out, glossy prints, the faces grainy and surreal.

She hesitated. ‘Photos? Of what?’ But after a pause she joined him, picked up one of the photos with a sharp intake of air as she recognized what she was looking at.

‘Where did you get it?’ Her eyes flicked to the others, her face puzzled, startled. ‘Are these all my family photos?’

‘Yes, I had them reproduced from Lilli’s wheel. Your family photos were stolen from the apartment and I wondered if there was any significance in that, if there was any reason why someone should want photos of your family to vanish. They hadn’t realized Lilli was doing this collage thing – I found it on the floor and took it away with me, with her permission, to have the faces blown up and printed.’

She picked up the one of the baby, her hand shaking, stared at it; suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

Steve wanted to put an arm round her, to comfort her, but he didn’t want her accusing him of opportunism again, or pushing him away, so he just stood there watching her with anxious sympathy, his own throat salting up.

Huskily he said, ‘That’s your little sister who died, isn’t it?’

She touched the baby face with one finger, head bent. ‘Anya,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s her, taken on her second birthday.’

Steve looked at the laughing little face of a child with curling dark hair, wide-spaced eyes. He had looked at it several times since he got the photos, but suddenly he felt an odd flash of déjà vu, a memory he couldn’t track back. He had seen a very similar picture somewhere before. But he couldn’t remember where or when – or was he simply remembering seeing the wraith-like photocopy set in Lilli’s wheel? Or maybe he was seeing this dead child through Sophie’s eyes by some sort of osmosis or sympathetic magic. He seemed to himself always to be trying to understand her, work out what she was feeling and thinking – perhaps he had begun to pick up what was happening inside her head and heart?