Crescendo

Marina looked at the salad. 'Yes,' she said, and was surprised to find that it was true. They sat down and made a good meal, having cold ham with the salad and fresh fruit to follow the meal. Gideon did not appear and she decided not to ask Grandie if he had gone. She would discover that in time and she was in no hurry to find out.

They cleared the table together and washed up, then Grandie asked her with a faint hesitation to play for him. She gave him a rueful smile, guessing that he was still hoping to arouse her ambition and her love of music.

She played a Chopin nocturne for him and the music fitted her mood, quiet and sad, an elegiac piece of music with a thread of wry resignation in it. She gazed out of the window while she played. Grandie sat so quietly that she could only just hear him breathing. His pride in her made her sadder than ever. She wished that for him she could have somehow learnt to desire fame, learnt to enjoy the battleground of the concert hall.

When she stopped playing Grandie got up and

kissed her, as he often did, wordless, slightly ele­vated, needing now to be alone. He would have given the world to see her take his place in the con­cert hall.

There were other ways in which she could use her ability, she thought. The garish lightning that played around the head of the solo performer might terrify her, but she could happily fit into other forms of music. She liked playing as an accompanist. Let­ting her fingers drift over the keyboard she con­sidered the various possibilities. She would talk to Grandie before she made up her mind. Although she was primarily a pianist she could play the violin to a certain standard. If the worst came to the worst she might get work teaching music in a school. She would have to go back to college for a final year, but that would be a pleasant experience.

There was no sign of Gideon when she joined Grandie in the kitchen later. She still did not ask Grandie if Gideon had gone. Instead she asked him what he thought of her idea of going back to college for a year before looking for a job in music. Gran- die's face lit up and she saw that he had not relin­quished his hopes for her future.

'I think it would be an excellent idea.'

'Do you think they would take me back?'

He laughed quietly. 'Oh, I think we'd persuade them.' Grandie still had pull and Marina's own ability had been demonstrated clearly enough dur­ing her time at the college.

'I could accompany,' she said, looking at him care­fully.

His face was as careful. 'Yes, of course you could, he agreed in an easy, casual voice, and she was not deceived. Grandie wasn't giving up yet. He wanted to get her back into that milieu—he believed that once she had the taste of that life in her mouth she wouldn't be able to relinquish it.

She went to bed early, leaving Grandie sitting in the kitchen playing a slow game of Patience. The wind had risen and the floorboards creaked and moaned, the windows rattling, the sound of the sea loud, as though it were just below her room. She fell asleep almost at once, though, lulled by the sounds of the night.

She woke realising that it was still dark, the wind louder than ever, lashing around the house in a fit of frenzy, the sea thu

ndering close at hand and the sound of rain dashing against the windows. A storm had blown up while she slept. She lay listening to the unleased violence and then sat up, ears pricked, hearing another sound. Was that Grandie still downstairs?

She looked at the clock. Two o'clock. A frown crossed her forehead. Was Grandie ill? The sounds were muffled by the wind and rain, but there was definitely someone moving about downstairs.

Slipping out of bed, she put on her wrap and tip­toed down the stairs. When she pushed open the kitchen door the figure standing there turned to look at her and she stared back at him.

He was drenched, his black hair flat on his head, his face gleaming with rain. He had stripped off his sweater and shirt and her startled eyes ran over the lean, muscled body briefly before she looked back at his face.

'Where have you been?' She came forward slowly, seeing the wet legs of the trousers, the sodden state of his shoes. 'Gideon! You're saturated! What have you been doing?'

'Walking.' He turned away and picked up the towel lying over the back of a chair.

The supple movement of his body as he bent made her mouth go dry. She stared at the wet brown skin, the ripple of muscle visible under the firm flesh, the dark hair curling down his chest. He roughly towelled his arms and chest while she watched and tried not to feel the savage stabs of at­traction. He flung the towel down. Marina said huskily: 'Your hair's drenched.'

'It doesn't matter.' He turned away towards the door and she picked up the towel.

'Sit down.'

He glanced at her, his eyes suddenly narrowed, his whole face stilled. Slowly he sat down and she said irritably: 'You must be mad! You'll catch pneu­monia.' The cross remark covered her desire to touch him and she hoped it would distract him from the faint trembling in her hands as she began to dry his hair, rubbing vigorously at it.

Her eyes moved down the long, bare back and she remembered the night they had made love up­stairs, the feel of that smooth skin under her hands. She ached to touch it now. Her hands curled into his hair and she shut her eyes, then opened them again quickly before he noticed.

'You can't surely have been walking all this time!' she exclaimed, taking away the towel to in­spect his ruffled, drying hair.

'I drove for hours,' Gideon muttered. 'When I did get back here, I couldn't come in, I still had to think, so I went for a long walk across the cliffs, past Spanish Headland, on for miles. The storm broke before I got back here.'

What had he been thinking about? But she knew that. What conclusions had he come to? She brushed the tangled dark strands back from his forehead, then caught his eye and wished she hadn't given in to the temptation of touching him. There was a dangerous gleam in those eyes. Gideon's instincts were too quick. He could sense what was happening inside her, as an animal might, his blood informing him of what his senses intuitively picked up from her.

Marina drew away, her face cold. 'You should change out of those wet clothes.'

'I was going to,' he agreed, rising, and coming far too close in the movement, his eyes just above her own and watching her closely.