So Close and No Closer

‘Lie to me if you want to, Rue,’ he told her sardonically, watching her, ‘but don’t lie to yourself.’

‘I’m not,’ Rue fibbed. ‘Oh, I know you want me to be frightened of you. You want to panic me into selling my land. I know what kind of man you are. You’re just like Julian.’

He moved so swiftly that she didn’t have time to escape, hemming her in with the bulk and heat of his body as he leaned towards her, resting his hands either side of her on the worktop, so that there was simply no way she could escape.

‘I’m getting a little tired of being told I’m like your husband. Hardly a flattering comparison, is it? Is it?’ he demanded brutally when she refused to speak. ‘Or is it just that, to you, all men are like him, Rue?’

The sudden softness in his voice had the most peculiar effect upon her. Her throat suddenly seemed painfully raw, her chest tight with what, if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought to be unshed tears. Even her eyes felt dry and gritty, and she had to resist the urge to rub them like a little girl.

‘I’m sorry about what he did to you,’ Neil continued in an even gentler voice. ‘He obviously hurt you monstrously, both physically and emotionally. I won’t deny that there are men like that, but I’m not one of them,’ he told her, his voice suddenly starting to harden, ‘and if you can’t tell that for yourself, then perhaps it’s time that someone taught you just how to recognise that difference.’

‘I don’t need teaching anything,’ Rue flared at him, frightened by the weakness she had experienced at that momentary softening of his tone, that had made her ache inside in a way that was completely unfamiliar to her. It had made her yearn to reach out to him, to soak up the warmth and strength of him. It had shown her a terrifying vulnerability in herself that she had never dreamed existed, and she fought against it like a terrified animal caught in a trap.

‘You think not?’ he said, and suddenly his voice was a sensual purr, as his glance dropped to her mouth. Appallingly, Rue felt it start to tremble. His glance seared her almost as much as the pressure of his mouth had done the previous night. She wanted to thrust him away from her and escape from his presence, but she was terrified of what might happen if she risked any physical contact between them.

‘I came here this morning to apologise for having frightened you last night,’ he told her, shocking her into immobility, ‘and to remind you that you still haven’t given me your advice about my mother’s rooms.’

Rue could hardly believe her ears. Did he really have the gall to imagine that she would fall for that stupid fiction a second time?

‘I’m afraid I’ve far too many commitments on at the moment to do anything like that,’ she told him coldly. ‘What you really need, anyway, is an interior designer. I can recommend a good local one.’

She turned her back on him and looked on the desk for the pad and pen she always kept at hand. The sensation of him standing so close behind her made tension prickle down her spine. She wrote out Hannah’s address and telephone number and turned back to him, almost thrusting it at him. He took it from her and said in an ominously calm voice, ‘You know, I wouldn’t have thought you were a coward, Rue.’

‘A coward?’ Her eyes flashed fire and resentment. ‘I’m not.’

‘Oh, yes, you are,’ he told her softly. ‘You are a coward who’s terrified of facing up to reality, to life, and that’s why you’re clinging so desperately to this cottage and this land. Without it you’d be like a tortoise without its shell.’

‘No, that’s not true!’ Rue flung at him, and Horatio, sensing her distress, started to whine.

‘You realise, don’t you, that it can be just as dangerous to isolate yourself from the rest of humanity as it can be to risk emotional pain through contact with it?’ His voice held a warning that made her tense and look at him.

He had asked her once already if she didn’t find the isolation of the cottage frightening. She had told him no, and that had been the truth, but now suddenly a quiver of apprehension shot through her.

‘I’m in no danger here,’ she told him unequivocally.

He looked at her for a long time and then replied drily, ‘If you really think that, you’re even more unworldly than I had already supposed. Be careful you don’t play Sleeping Beauty for too long, Rue,’ he warned her, as he stepped away from her and walked towards the door. ‘When you eventually want to wake up, you might find it’s too late.’

He had gone before she could make any retort. She remained where she was for another half-hour, but her concentration on her task was broken. Every few minutes her normally nimble fingers would suddenly still and she would realise with a sudden pang of fear that she was standing staring into nothing, her mind so totally preoccupied with Neil Saxton that she was hardly even aware of her surroundings.

Impatient and angry with herself, she collected Horatio and set out for the field. The hot summer sun had long since dried the early morning mist off the blooms, and her flowers were enjoying the heat of the sun with an almost sensual appreciation.

She touched the velvety petals of a midnight blue larkspur, wondering why she had never noticed before this almost wanton drinking up of the sun’s heat. Until Neil Saxton had forced his way into her life, there had been no necessity of her to have such thoughts. That knowledge made her feel uncomfortable with herself. No matter how much she might wish it, the flowers were still not ready for picking.

There was work she could have done, but for some unaccountable reason she felt too listless to do it. Later on in the afternoon, when the sun started to go, she would have the watering to do, but right now…

On a sudden impulse she headed back to the cottage, opening her fridge/freezer and collecting from it two of the fruit pies she had baked the previous week. She picked some fresh herbs from the garden and, on impulse, a pretty bunch of flowers, and then, telling Horatio that on this occasion he could not go with her, she headed for the back door, carrying a wicker basket full of the things she had collected together.

Her destination was one of the cottages in the row that lined the main street of the village. Her father had bought it for his housekeeper when she retired, and as she got into her car and drove towards the village Rue reflected guiltily that it was almost a month since she had last gone to visit Mrs Dacre. A widow with no family of her own, she had been fond of Rue, and, although she had very good neighbours either side of her in the village, Rue kept as closely in touch with her as she could.

The village was quiet, satiated with heat and sun. Too far off the beaten track to be a tourist attraction, it remained as it had been for almost a hundred years; a jumble of tiny cottages lined either side of the village street, the small front gardens a tumble of pretty flowers

. Once these houses had been the homes of the labourers who worked on the large agricultural estate. The plots to the rear of the cottages had once provided a year’s supply of vegetables for the labourers’ families. Now very few of them were used for that purpose. Most of the occupants were elderly, their families long ago grown-up.

There was very little work in the immediate area, and as Rue parked her car and got out she wondered a little sadly if, once the new motorway system had been completed, the village would simply become another dormitory suburb to the city.

She walked round the back of the row of cottages, knowing from previous experience that Mrs Dacre would be alarmed at the sound of someone knocking at her front door. She found the old lady sitting in a chair in her back garden. Well into her seventies now, she was still very independent, tutting a little when she saw the basket that Rue had brought her.

‘I’m afraid my pastry’s never going to be as good as yours,’ Rue told her with a smile, ‘but you were saying the last time I called that you could never be bothered to make a pie just for yourself, and since I was baking anyway…’