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fell on the bed, afraid that Vincent was on her heels, but she need
not have feared that. He did not follow her.
She had never cried like that before; the tears seemed endless, and
they did not flow the way all tears had flowed out of her before.
They were wrung out of her shuddering body and they hurt
unbearably; she cried in a physical convulsion of pain and thought
the tears would never stop.
Vincent had shamed and shocked her. She had shamed and shocked
herself. She hated him, and had the best of reasons for doing so, and
yet she had trembled in his arms, wanting him with desperation. He
had given her more pleasure than any man, even Ricky, had ever
done. She had never wanted anyone the way she had wanted
Vincent a few moments ago. She felt sick at the very memory of
how she had felt in his arms, but the bitter truth was that if Vincent
had wanted to he could have got her into bed just now. She had been
helpless to say no to him. If he had pushed her down on to the floor
and made love to her there and then, in that room, he could have
taken her without any resistance.
Her tears at last dried up and she lay on the bed, face down,
trembling and fighting to get back some semblance of normality.
She had to pull herself together. Any minute now, Jess might knock
on the door to find out what was wrong, and how could she face her
in this state?
She forced herself on to her feet and splashed cold water on her
face. In the mirror her eyes stared back looking very unfamiliar: lids
puffy, reddened, her lashes tear-drenched, her face shadowed and
pale.
Her eyes held something more an agony of shame and
bewilderment. They questioned her. Why? Why did you let it
happen? Why did you let him do that to you? What is the matter
with you?
She couldn't understand herself any more. She didn't recognise
herself. Her behaviour was so inexplicable, so disturbing why had
she let a man she hated and despised make love to her?
Why? She stared into her tortured eyes and suddenly her skin
seemed to freeze to her bones. There was, after all, one obvious
explanation of all this.
It- could be a legacy of her coma. Had she suffered brain damage,
after all? She was acting unpredictably, doing stupid things,
puzzling things, losing control of herself. Was she going crazy?
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS half an hour before Belinda could face unlocking her door,
and by then she was looking almost normal, her hair brushed, her
clothes neat, her face wearing make-up that hid the ravages of her
tears. Nobody had knocked on her door, so either Jess hadn't missed
her or Vincent Garrett had warned her against going upstairs to find
out why she was in her room. But what on earth could he say? she
thought, then a bitter humour made her grimace. That would be no
problem, he would lie, of course. What else did he ever do?
She would do a little lying herself. She looked for a paperback of
one of her favourite books, Jane Eyre, which one of the nurses had
given her as a farewell present. It would make a good excuse for
having gone back to her room.
When she went downstairs again she met Jess in the hall. 'Oh, there
you are!' said Jess cheerfully, but Belinda felt she was being given a
thoughtful, probing look, from which she half turned her head so
that Jess only got her profile.
'I was just looking for this!' she said, holding up her book.
'Oh, you've got something to read! I was going to offer you some
magazines. I thought you might like to sit in the garden this morning
so I've put a chair out on the lawn; you can read out there in the sun,'
Jess told her, and Belinda eagerly accepted.
She was unlikely to have any trouble from Vincent Garrett out there,
in full view of the house, and it would give her time alone, to think.
Jess took her out there, saw her settled in the deep-cushioned wicker
chair, with a white and green striped garden umbrella arranged to
keep the sun off her face, and a low wicker table beside her, on
which Jess had arranged a jug' of iced lemonade, a glass, and a little
plate of biscuits.
Looking at them, Belinda grinned. 'Are you trying to fatten me up?'
Jess just laughed. 'If you want me, ring this.' She pointed to the little
brass bell on the table and then she went back to the house.
Belinda sat back, her book open on her lap, pretending to read. Her
mind was hunting feverishly for a way out of the trap Vincent had
laid for her.
She had to get away from here; she couldn't stay in this house. She
never wanted to see him again. She didn't yet know his precise
intentions, but she suspected they were not good. What had he said?
That he wanted her somewhere 'safe'? What did that mean? A shiver
ran down her spine. She didn't trust him or like him.
But even if she could escape where was she to go? She had no home
now, and her mother was on the other side, of the world. She had
some money in the bank, of course. She could go to a hotel, or find
herself a new flat, but she knew she wasn't yet over the effects of her
injuries. She still had dizzy spells from time to time, she often felt
tired or weak, and she got headaches, although they were no longer
such bad ones, and they came more and more rarely.
It would be dangerous to be alone, though, or not to have immediate
medical help on hand. That was the whole idea of going to a
convalescent home. Perhaps she could go back to the hospital and
ask them to find her a real convalescent home?
A little flush crept up her face at the idea of explaining. What could
she say, for heaven's sake? It would be so embarrassing, it would
make her sound crazy...
She closed her eyes, flinching. I'm not. I am not crazy. I mustn't let
myself think such a thing. Vincent Garrett would like me to believe
it, no doubt. He wants to undermine me, destroy my self-confidence,
stop me suing his brother for a fortune. That is what this is all about.
Money. He is determined .not to give me any money, if he can help
it, and he is ready to use any weapon that comes to hand. Even sex.
Her stomach churned. She couldn't bear to remember herself in his
arms; she hated the very thought of how she had felt during those
few moments.
He's unscrupulous, an opportunist, she thought, her face hardening.
She looked up and stared across the garden at a white rose in bloom,
but did not really see it at all. Instead, she saw a dark, ruthless face,
and her hands screwed into fists on her lap. She had to get away
from him, away from here.
She could ring her mother and say she was coming to New Zealand,
then book a flight and just go. How could he stop her?
There was a phone in her room, and Jess had promised she could
ring her mother. She would do that later today. As soon as she had
talked to her mother, she would book the first possible flight, then
she would pack and ring for a taxi and spend a night in a hotel near
the airport.
It was all very simple, really, after all, and she leaned back with a
sigh, suddenly very tired. She had been getting worked up over
nothing. Vincent Garrett wasn't superhuman; he had no power over
her. She only had to put her mind to it and she could walk away
from him, and he would not be able to stop her, short of using
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