Drowning Page 4

  I’d never cheated on a partner in my life, not even when I was dating boyfriends. And now, after just three months of marriage to a man I believed to be my soul mate, I did not intend to start.

  With a monumental effort, I stood straighter, squared my shoulders, slid my hands from under his even as he lifted his own away.

  He stepped back, allowing me to turn and face him. The distance between us felt suddenly cold, and I wished for him near me again, but such thinking was far too dangerous.

  “Thank you for the offer.” My voice sounded small and husky. “I am going to refuse it.”

  “I understand,” he murmured.

  My head felt suddenly clearer, and my eyes had adapted to the almost full darkness. I could see the path, a pale, curving track snaking down the hill and past the lapa where the coals of the brazier still glowed, to the faraway twinkling lights of the lodge.

  “I’ll walk back on my own,” I told him. “Good night, Nicholas.”

  “I’ll follow you back to make sure you get there safely. Good night, Erin,” he said in a more formal voice, as if we were suddenly strangers.

  I set off on the path toward the lodge, going as fast as I could in case he was tempted to catch up with me and test my self-control a second time. Although he didn’t speak a word to me, I heard his footsteps behind me the whole way. Ten minutes later, I arrived back at the lodge. He opened the front door for me and while he was closing it, I hurried down the corridor to my bedroom, still feeling breathless and shaken by the storm of emotion, which my host’s shameless invitation had unleashed inside me.

  CHAPTER 5

  Drifting in and out of sleep the following morning, I relived the events of the previous night, which I was sure had also been part of my dreams. How Nicholas had greeted me, managing to turn a simple kiss on the cheek into a gesture that had felt decidedly unchaste. The way he’d smelled up close—musky and masculine, and how he’d laughed, his serious expression lightening up; the hard, chiseled angles of his face softening into a roguish appeal. I had watched his hands while he’d cooked, noticing they were square shaped, long fingered, capable looking but sensual, too.

  I clamped my thighs together and pushed my face into the pillow, letting out a sharp breath as I remembered that single, exquisite moment when his fingers had moved down my body, just brushing the tips of my nipples, sending a bolt of sensation through my body that had been completely out of proportion to the lightness of that touch.

  And the audaciousness of his proposal… offered in that deep, compelling voice.

  Oh, God, what on earth would have happened if I’d said yes?

  I slipped a hand down between my legs, remembering his breath, warm on my neck. Thinking about the words he’d said. How he’d wanted to pleasure me sexually. To make me come.

  Well, he was doing it now… I gently stroked my clitoris, replaying those forbidden moments over and over again in my mind. I knew it was shameful and wrong to fantasize about this man’s wicked offer, but the crawling sense of guilt I felt at doing so was only adding to the intensity of my pleasure. It had been a while since I’d made myself come—quite a long while. In fact, if I was going to be honest with myself, it had been far too long since I’d last climaxed with my husband. When we hadn’t been fighting, Vince had been either too tired or too busy for anything but the quick, rough sex I’d discovered he preferred. Now I was suddenly desperate for the unhurried release of orgasm, even if it meant lusting over what might have been with another man.

  I thought of Nicholas touching my breasts again—this time, his fingers lingering there, caressing… I rubbed a hand over them now, realizing my nipples were achingly hard. He had said I was desirable. Did he have any idea of the desire he had awoken in me? What might have happened next, out there under those bright southern stars? Imagine if he’d started pleasuring me right then, just slipped my shorts down and slid his hands up my thighs and…

  I gasped, writhing against my moving fingers, my breath quickening. I was at the brink of orgasm when there was a rapid knocking at my door. Miriam called, “Ma’am. Ma’am, can I come in?”

  I snatched my hand from between my now-moistened thighs. Wide-eyed, I sat bolt upright in the sunny room as adrenaline flooded through me. Then, realizing I’d gone to sleep in the nude, without even closing the blinds, I bounced down onto the mattress again and tugged the sheet over me.

  “Yes,” I said. “Come in.” My face felt searing.

  The door swung open and Miriam wheeled a trolley in.

  “Good news, my dear. Our cell phone signal came back an hour ago. Mr. Nicholas told me to bring you this.”

  The trolley contained a new-looking HP laptop computer and power supply, an Internet plugin device, a basic Nokia cell phone with charger, a hardcover notebook, a pen and a pencil, and a tray with coffee and a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  Miriam set about offloading the trolley’s contents onto the large desk near the eastern window. The arousal I’d felt earlier was gone, thanks to Miriam’s well-timed knock on the door. Now I couldn’t believe I’d almost masturbated to orgasm thinking of Nicholas de Lanoy and his outrageous proposal.

  When I thought about what Nicholas had suggested—and of how close I had come to saying yes—I found myself flushing with shame. What was wrong with me that I could even have considered such an offer? That single moment of weakness could have ruined my marriage forever. How would I be feeling now, waking up in tangled sheets to find Nicholas sleeping beside me, knowing that I’d done something that could never be undone?

  How dare he have made such a suggestion. And how dare I have come close to saying yes, if only for one misguided moment. Now, in the brilliant light of a sunny morning, I felt both cheap and insulted.

  “Please tell Mr. Nicholas thank you,” I said. My voice sounded cool and self-possessed. It did not betray the anger that suddenly seethed inside me, directed both at him and at myself.

  “I will do, my dear. If you are going to be busy, could I bring some breakfast to your room?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Pancakes? A waffle? Fruit salad? Lemon muffin?”

  If she kept tempting my appetite this way that new bridge would need to be triple-reinforced.

  “Fruit salad sounds perfect,” I told her and then, weakening, “Perhaps a waffle as well. I know I shouldn’t, but…”

  “Good. I will make it for you with maple syrup and ice cream. You are too thin, my dear. You need to eat, so you can go home feeling strong.”

  Looking pleased by my decision to stuff my face with fatty calories, she left. I got out of bed, dressed, and then began the task of setting up my mobile office on the elegant wooden desk.

  I had gotten everything up and running, made a to-do list, plugged my phone into the charger, and was sourcing phone numbers when Miriam came back with the breakfast tray containing a fruit salad with strawberries, mango, melon, and kiwi fruit, and a crisp, delicious-looking waffle with a scoop of ice cream and maple syrup.

  When she had gone and I knew I’d have some privacy for the next little while, it was time for me to make my first and most important call. I needed to phone my husband. To tell him that I was fine, and to try to apologize for what had happened between us before the accident.

  It had been such a small thing, this time, and looking back on it, I felt so confused.

  Vince and I had spent the day before the rainstorm exploring the museums and restored buildings in the historic gold mining town of Pilgrim’s Rest. We’d stayed over at an exquisite boutique hotel run by a delightful and clearly devoted married couple—Kevin and Byron. It turned out that Byron had an interest in photography, too, and the four of us had ended up having cocktails together and conversing before dinner.

  I’d noticed that Vince had seemed to withdraw from the conversation, but had assumed he’d simply been getting tired of talking shop, so in the end it was I alone who had walked through the hotel with the slender, dark-haired Byr
on, admiring his work, and of course exclaiming about the loveliness of his wedding photos, before we had been served a splendid three-course meal prepared by Kevin.

  It had been a wonderful evening. I’d felt so happy, and so welcome in South Africa after talking, sharing, and laughing with these two like-minded people. Vince had remained quiet, but I had innocently assumed he’d been tired.

  It was only when he’d announced abruptly, before coffee was served, that he was going to bed, that I had realized too late that he was angry. He’d gotten up without acknowledging me, offering our hosts a terse thanks, and an icy knot had tightened inside me, quickly dissolving the warmth that had been there.

  Whatever his problem was, I knew from his demeanor that he was blaming me for it. Somehow, inadvertently, I had done something wrong.

  The coffee had been excellent, but I found I’d stopped enjoying it. As soon as my cup was finished, pleading weariness after the long drive, I’d hugged Kevin and Byron goodnight and hurried to join Vince in our bedroom.

  Vince had his back to me and when I’d tentatively stroked his lean, sinewy shoulder he had not responded, nor offered any sign he was awake, even though I knew from the tension I could feel in his body that he was.

  I’d spent a virtually sleepless night, and in the morning, when I was feeling sick with exhaustion and dread, the fight had started.

  “How could you do that?” Vince had snapped angrily.

  “What are you talking about? Vince, I don’t know what I did!” I blinked tears away, my stomach twisting with nervousness. Damn it all… why did he have to get into one of his moods now, of all times?

  “That makes it even worse,” he’d told me. He’d stared at me, his handsome, expressive face and dark eyes showing only the bitterest contempt. “That you don’t realize.”

  “That. I. Don’t. Realize. What?” I had snarled back at him, finally losing my temper, and the next moment I let out a shriek as Vince grabbed my upper arm hard, digging his fingers brutally into my skin as he’d yanked me towards him. In that moment, I could see he was so angry he didn’t know how badly he was hurting me. I’d tried to grab hold of the bed frame to keep myself on my feet, but I hadn’t managed, and I’d ended up stumbling sideways and smashing my hip agonizingly against a sturdy mahogany desk.

  “You were flirting. Damn it, Erin, do you think only of yourself? How do you think I felt last night, sitting there like a fool and listening, watching, while you basically threw yourself at that guy? It was disgusting. Humiliating.”

  “But… but he’s… he’s gay,” I stammered out. That was one of the reasons I’d felt so easy, so safe, interacting with Byron. I knew there were strict rules regarding other men. I’d learned the rules fast over the course of our whirlwind relationship. I understood now how to modify my behavior to avoid these problems, because I knew Vince could become illogically jealous at times. It was, unfortunately, the flip side of his artistic, talented personality—the deep creativity and the passion we shared for our work that had first drawn me to him, and him to me.

  “How do you know they’re gay? Both of them could be bisexual.”

  “In any case, I wasn’t flirting. I was…” God, what could I say that wouldn’t make things worse? I couldn’t say I was acting normally or he’d never trust me again. “I was so excited about the photography. It just made me… more expressive than usual.”

  “So that’s what expressive means to you, does it, Erin?” His grip tightened again, his fingers clawing agonizingly into the flesh of my arm.

  My breathing was coming fast. This was a bad one. I could see it in the hardness of his eyes, the set of his mouth. I wished, I prayed, for the old Vince back, the one that I’d had yesterday, who’d felt like my twin, discussing our relationship as he’d sped along the rough terrain in the hired Land Rover. Who’d taken it all in his stride without losing his temper when the Land Rover’s tow hitch had sheared off after the trailer had hit a deep pothole, damaging the trailer slightly but luckily not the contents.

  Within a couple of hours, my dynamic husband had organized another car as well as a driver—Bulewi—to transport our excess luggage, as I had not obtained an international driver’s license before coming out here. He’d said this was a more practical alternative than trying to find somewhere that could repair both the Land Rover and the trailer while we were out in the middle of nowhere.

  Now, I wished for the resourceful, upbeat Vince that I loved to come back again and for this unfamiliar, jealous stranger to be gone. Preferably, before he made me scream from the pain of his grasp.

  “Vince, I’m so sorry. You know I love you…” I began in a low, pleading voice, but although his grip finally loosened, I could see my efforts were too little, too late.

  “I’m driving on my own today,” he’d told me, his eyes narrowed. “I need some space to think about this, and decide what I should do. You can go in the other car.”

  “No, damn it!” I was boiling with frustration at the unfairness of all of this, but at the same time I was starting to second-guess myself. Perhaps I had behaved inappropriately. Perhaps I had not realized how hurtful my actions had been. I had never been married before, although Vince had. I was afraid of being the failure; the one who was unable to make things work with this complicated, talented man. Clearly, I needed to be less proud, to be big enough to apologize—to beg, if that was what it would take. “Please! Look, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. We can talk it through…”

  My mind was racing, desperately planning how I would come across as cool and distant to our two hosts when we bid them goodbye, how I would show Vince that I really did mean what I had said and that I was anxious not to let the same situation happen again. Maybe I could manage to leave the hotel without speaking to Byron at all. I hoped so.

  He’d opened the windows and stared out at a sky that looked as grey and stormy as our relationship felt.

  “I’m driving on my own today,” Vince repeated.

  Now, I felt sick with nerves as I dialed his cell number from memory, noticing as I did so that it was eight-thirty in the morning. I imagined the signal bouncing between satellites during the surprisingly long time it took to connect.

  It rang three times before he answered.

  “Vince Mitchell.”

  With the unfamiliar number I was phoning from, he didn’t know it was me calling, of course. Even so, I couldn’t help smiling at the sound of his voice: the rushed, impatient way he had of speaking, as if there was never going to be enough time on the planet for everything he needed to do.

  “Vince, it’s Erin.”

  “Hey, baby. Thank God you’re okay. It’s so good to hear you.” His voice softened, warmed, and with a huge rush of relief I realized it was going to be all right. I had been a fool to even anticipate that this conversation might be difficult.

  “It’s so good to hear you, too.”

  “I was so worried for you. The police said your car actually washed off a bridge.”

  “It did.”

  “It was raining so hard, I don’t even recall crossing a bridge.”

  “We were a long way behind you when it happened,” I reassured him. “Nobody could have known it would collapse. It was very sudden.”

  “But you got out okay?”

  “Yes, I did.” Better to say nothing about the drowning, I decided. It might trigger further questioning on the subject of resuscitation. “I’m fine and so is Bulewi. He ended up on your side of the river.”

  “Bulewi? Who’s he?” I could hear suspicion in his voice.

  “The driver,” I told him, laughing.

  “Oh. I forgot his name. And the car?”

  “I have no idea where it is.”

  “It’s gone?” His voice was suddenly louder. “Jesus Christ, seriously?”

  “Seriously. It’s underwater somewhere, I suppose. I know there was some of your gear inside as well. Can you email me a list of what was there? I’m online again now.”

/>   “Well, you can do it from my hotel room later, can’t you? Where are you now?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m at a game lodge called Leopard Rock. It’s run by a local couple. Mrs. de Lanoy and her staff have been wonderful to me.” I crossed my fingers behind my back as I spoke.

  “Give me the coordinates, and I’ll come pick you up. I assume the bridge is passable again by now?”

  Clearly, the police had given Vince only the most basic information, which was a good thing for me, but his ignorance of my situation was a problem I hadn’t expected.

  “When the river flooded, it was completely washed away.”

  “So how can I get to you?”

  “You can’t, Vince. I’m stuck here until the bridge is rebuilt. It could take a few days, apparently.”

  There was another short pause.

  “You’re kidding me,” he said. His voice was hard. “It can’t take that long. There has to be another way.”

  “This is the middle of nowhere, remember. The bridge is gone, and the lowlands are underwater, which means the tracks that go through to the Kruger Park are also impassable.”

  “What about a helicopter?”

  I had heard Nicholas mentioning something about flying supplies somewhere. Carefully, I replied, “I’ll ask Mrs. de Lanoy. But I don’t think there’s one on the property.”

  “You mean you haven’t checked yet if there’s a helicopter available?”

  “No. I didn’t think of doing that.” My mouth felt dry.

  He was silent again.

  “This is all very convenient, Erin,” he said in a cold voice that made my stomach twist.

  “H-how do you mean?”

  “I don’t know myself. It just seems… strange. That the driver managed to get to the other side of the river, but you ended up somewhere that has no way out.”

  “Well, I am telling you the truth.” On the defensive yet again, I realized with a sickening sense of finality. I could see how this conversation was going to go; the way so many others had done recently. You’re lying to me. No, I’m not. Yes, you are. No, I’m not.