Unwilling Surrender Page 12

  She was sitting on a bar stool, sipping from a tall glass of ice-cold lime juice, when a familiar voice said from behind her, ‘And how are you feeling today?’ He signalled to one of the bartenders and ordered himself a drink.

  Christina looked at him reluctantly. She had almost managed to put last night’s disaster to the back of her mind. Now it re-emerged with unwelcome clarity.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ she said a little stiffly.

  He wasn’t looking at her at all, though, and the contours of his face were rigidly polite. He wasn’t, she realised, going to mention a thing about their little episode. He was treating her with the cool courteousness of a fairly distant acquaintance. Gone was that edge of familiarity that generally underlay their conversations, even when they were arguing.

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘and I take it you’ve had a field-day with your camera?’

  She looked straight into his blue eyes and he looked back at her, blandly. After their previous clashes, this was just the kind of polite chit-chat she had longed for. Now, though, she found that it was oddly unsettling.

  What a fool you are, she told herself. What do you want from Adam Palmer? His ridicule at your behaviour last night or his gentlemanly silence? Except it wasn’t gentlemanly. It was more indifferent, and she discovered with alarm that his indifference was the last thing she wanted.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she replied, in the same tone of voice. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite so amazing—the colours, the sheer imagination out there.’ She took another sip from her drink, quite pleased with the veneer of casualness which she was managing to get across, despite the fact that on the edge of her mind little flashing playbacks of the night before kept skimming past. ‘But I suppose it’s nothing new to you. You’ve been here before and seen it all.’

  ‘Seen it all before? I don’t think that’s possible. It changes every year, and besides, it’s been a long time since I was this way.’ He took a long swallow of his drink and looked at her. ‘What are your plans for tomorrow?’

  ‘Much the same as today.’ She shrugged. ‘I want to go to the savannah so that I can see all of the bands as they line up for the judging. That way I won’t miss anything. What about you? Were you out there today?’

  He nodded. ‘Frances and I managed to see quite a bit.’

  Christina felt a painful knot in her stomach. She couldn’t seriously be jealous, could she? That was just too laughable for words.

  ‘Did she have a good time?’ She thought of that long, blonde figure swaying to the music in the streets, and felt slightly sick.

  ‘She knows how to enjoy herself,’ Adam remarked, and Christina muttered under her breath,

  ‘I’m sure she does.’

  ‘She can be quite uninhibited when it suits her,’ he continued in the same slightly speculative voice.

  ‘Really?’ This is all terribly uninteresting, her voice implied.

  ‘But then,’ he added slowly, ‘so, I’ve discovered, can you.’

  He looked at her with a certain hesitancy. ‘I’m not sure how I’m going to phrase this,’ he said at last, ‘but the reason I just said that was really because of what happened last night.’ He held up his hand as though he wanted to continue uninterrupted, but in fact the last thing she was going to do was interrupt. His words had taken her breath away. In fact they had taken her power of speech away completely.

  There was a thundering noise in her head, beating on and on, as she sat there, stone-like, and listened in silence.

  ‘You must be careful, Tina,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re not accustomed to drink. I know that. Remember when you were fifteen and Fiona persuaded you to drink a bottle of red cordial which turned out to be laced with alcohol? You could hardly stand up afterwards and you felt lousy for three days.’

  Christina remembered the episode well enough. Adam had been back from university, taking a few weeks off before he began that trip round Europe which was to end prematurely with the death of his parents. Thanks to Fiona, she had been obliged to spend three days at their house, thoroughly under the weather, and he had found the entire thing highly entertaining.

  ‘What are you getting at?’ she whispered. She knew what he was getting at, but some part of her wanted to hear him say it.

  ‘I’m being honest with you, Tina,’ he said, and she hated the tone of his voice when he said that. If he expected some kind of thanks for sitting there and insulting her, however well intentioned he thought he was being, then he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

  ‘You could have had real problems if someone else had been in that room with you last night,’ he continued slowly.

  ‘Well, thank heavens that you were,’ she said, stung because, without realising it, he was rubbing salt into an open wound. ‘What a knight in shining armour you are. And thank you so much for pointing out my foolish behaviour to me.’ She swallowed the remainder of her drink and stood up. ‘I don’t need you playing big brother with me, though,’ she spat out. ‘Save that for your sister.’ She turned around and began walking away, and he followed her, catching up with her and forcing her to face him.

  ‘I’m not trying to embarrass you,’ he said tersely. ‘I’m just giving you a piece of friendly advice.’

  ‘I don’t want your friendly advice!’

  She met his stare with hostility.

  ‘You’re so damned innocent!’ he said harshly, and she clenched her fists to her sides, tempted to lash out and hit him, but knowing that that would serve no purpose at all except to demean her still further.

  ‘Are you quite finished?’ she asked, in a dangerously still voice. She felt as though her body was being held under control through sheer force of effort, and that any moment that effort would abandon her and she would start trembling all over.

  ‘You don’t know the male species,’ he ground on vehemently. ‘You talk loud and hard about having been taught a lesson by Robinson, but you’re as naïve as they come. I’m not saying that you make it a habit to encourage men when you’ve had a little too much to drink...’

  Oh, God, this was getting worse by the minute. She thought back to her behaviour the night before and wanted to cringe. She couldn’t even deny that what he was saying was true, because it was.

  ‘I’m just telling you to be careful.’ He shot her an odd look. ‘You’ve never slept with a man before, have you? You never slept with Robinson, did you? Was that why you two parted company?’ he asked, and she stiffened under his grip. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ he said, reading the expression on her face correctly. ‘I guessed as much.’ He released her and she immediately pulled back.

  ‘You can keep your guesswork to yourself,’ she informed him tightly. ‘You can keep it the same place you keep your advice!’

  She turned around without giving him an opportunity to reply and walked quickly towards the lift. She was half afraid that he might follow her into the lift and subject her to a few more of his charming observations on her personality and her sex life, but he stayed where he was, staring at her.

  Once in her bedroom, she had a long shower, closing her eyes and letting the fine spray of water wash over her as if in some way it could cleanse that awful, exposed feeling that she had inside.

  He had forced her to face a lot of things about herself and she hated it. What gave him the right to try and tell her how she should or should not behave? What gave him the right to make sweeping assumptions about her love-life? He had taken one look at her face and had known that she was a virgin. Was she so transparent? She was not ashamed of her virginity, but to have him confront her with it made her want to curl up with shame.

  What would he make of that? she wondered bitterly. A far cry from the women he knew, she suspected. No doubt he found it yet another little amusing feature about her, like her dedication to her career and her avoidance of nightclubs.

  She felt too exhausted to join the others for dinner, so she indulgently had some sent up to her room, and at a little after ten Jennifer,
whom Christina now felt that she had known for years, came in for a chat and to discuss their plan of action the following day.

  ‘You lost us,’ she accused, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Christina made an effort to smile at the redhead.

  ‘Not on purpose. I got a little carried away with the camera. Photographer’s weakness.’

  They spent the next half-hour enthusing over what they had seen that day, and then made arrangements for the following day: in the morning, photos of the models, unstaged shots of them posing amid the colourful chaos of the costumes, and after that they agreed to go their separate ways if they wanted.

  Where, Christina wondered, would Adam be while all this was going on?

  She should have known, of course. The following morning he was right there with them for the shoot of the models. Christina did her best to ignore him, but she seemed to have developed some extra sixth sense that picked up his presence wherever he happened to be.

  When he came to stand next to her as she photographed Frances amid a group of band members who were costumed as magnificent butterflies, with huge wings shimmering in the breeze, she could feel her body tense, and then go into overdrive, bringing her out in a fine perspiration.

  Sooner or later she would have to talk to him, she knew that, but after what had been said between them the evening before she couldn’t bring herself to act normally. So she ignored him and concentrated on her camera, giving directions to Frances, and liaising with the other members of the crew.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve seen you in action,’ Adam said, his hands in his pockets. ‘You’re good.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ Christina replied bluntly. ‘I wouldn’t have very much work if I didn’t do it properly. There’s a lot of competition out there and I have to keep on top of it.’

  She moved off, leaving him where he was. So what if he was the boss? That didn’t mean that she was obliged to humour his passing interest in what she was doing.

  She looked at Frances through the camera lens. The colours of the dancing butterfly wings rebounded off her, giving her a rich, high colour, and her straight blonde hair was wild and tousled. She projected just the right unkempt, seductive image that matched well with the abandon that the carnival represented.

  Christina had a good feeling about these photos. They would be superb. It would not be one of those instances when the camera reproduced a disappointing shadow of what was really viewed at the time.

  She wound up as the steel band began to play, preluding the start of the winding march through the streets towards the savannah.

  She carefully packed away her camera and looked around. Adam was staring at Frances, his face quite expressionless. Christina followed the direction of his gaze to Frances, her lovely face raised to the sun, brushing a strand of golden hair away from her face. The light captured her in a posture of pagan enjoyment, and Christina felt a little stab of glass pierce through her heart.

  Perhaps, if she looked at herself honestly, she would have to admit that she rather envied that sheer power to attract, on a purely physical level, that Frances possessed.

  If she had had that quality, would Adam have been able to resist her behaviour in the hotel room? Would he have walked away and later casually offered her advice on how to conduct herself?

  Frances slowly turned to face Adam. She was quite aware of her own startling beauty and that knowledge was written on her face.

  They suit each other, Christina thought acidly, packing up her equipment and looking away, both physically eye-catching, a photographer’s dream with their startling contrast of fair and dark.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’

  Christina hadn’t heard him approach, but now Adam was standing right next to her, and the suddenness of his presence made her heart skip a beat. She glanced up briefly and then looked away, continuing what she had been doing.

  ‘I saw you looking at her,’ he carried on lazily. ‘I expect those shots of her will be quite spectacular.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Christina said non-committally. ‘She has good bones, the sort of face that the camera loves.’ She looked past him to where Frances was moving away with some of her entourage. ‘I think she’s escaping,’ she said lightly. ‘You’d better run and catch up with her, because she’ll be swallowed up in these crowds in no time at all.’

  ‘So she will,’ Adam commented with a little shrug. ‘She’s a big girl now, though. She hardly needs my protection.’

  Christina didn’t answer. She began to move away and he fell into step beside her.

  ‘I’m a big girl too,’ she said edgily, ‘and I don’t need your protection either.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Adam replied smoothly. ‘If anything untoward happens to you, I promise I won’t interfere. But I will come along with you, see what sort of scenes you intend to capture. That way, if Bill needs my advice on any aspect of writing this article I’ll be more capable of providing it.’

  Much as she would have liked to argue with that one, she couldn’t. Apart from anything else, he had a valid right to accompany her, see her in action, any time he pleased. He would, after all, be handing over a very generous cheque for her efforts over here.

  Anyway, they had known each other for years. He would be surprised if she objected strongly to his company. He might even guess the reason behind it—that he made her nervous, that she was too aware of him for her own good.

  ‘Of course,’ she said tartly. ‘Follow me by all means. Although I doubt I’ll be as exciting company as your girlfriend.’

  With that she moved off, thinking, Make what you like of that, I don’t care.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THIS was the final day of the carnival. Yesterday, the Monday, there had been an air of disorganised festivity. Today, though, it was different. The bands seemed somehow more complete. The different sections were rigidly defined, whereas the day before people had crossed over from one section to another, so that the costumes had become intermingled.

  Of course, there was a reason for this. The bands were to be judged today.

  Christina found herself chatting to Adam about the differences in the atmosphere on the Monday and the Tuesday, and he, in turn, chatted to her about the origins of carnival in general. He was well informed.

  They walked along the pavements, frequently being separated by people barging past them, linking back up, amicably chatting about everything that was going on around them. And Adam, she had to admit, could be an amusing companion. It hardly surprised her. She had always known him to be witty, with that dry incisiveness that came naturally to some people.

  After the initial tension of realising that he would be spending the day in her company, she had found herself beginning to relax. And the fact that she had to devote a good proportion of her time to her professional duties made things a whole lot easier.

  By lunchtime, she was unwillingly enjoying herself. They ate roti, bought from a vendor at the side of the road—parcels of curried beef and chicken which they held in their hands. The curried sauce dripped down the side of their faces, but it was delicious—hot and spicy and surprisingly welcome, more so than a salad, which Christina would have imagined to be far nicer in weather such as this.

  They bought soft drinks, ice-cold, sold at exorbitantly over-inflated prices, and drank straight from the can.

  Crowds of people swarmed around them, even though they had left the main road and found a side-street in which to relax for a while.

  All the time there was a dazzling array of potential photographs: people sitting on the pavements, legs stretched out, expressions of sheer exhaustion on their faces; little children being carried on the shoulders of their fathers, bouncing up and down to the sounds of the deafening music; the amazing colours and designs of the costumes, swaying this way and that as their wearers danced along to the beat of the music. Ever so often, so many images would present themselves that Christina was literally spoilt for choice.

  They
had finished lunch and were rejoining one of the bands, from the sidelines, when Adam murmured into her ear, ‘You really enjoy what you do, don’t you? Every nerve in your body seems to be alive.’

  ‘This is quite spectacular,’ Christina admitted, turning to him and seeing something in his eyes which she couldn’t identify, but which made her feel momentarily unsteady. ‘Of course, I love what I do, but this—’ she gesticulated around her ‘—this is magnificent. I hardly need to focus the camera at all. I get the feeling that, if I just hold it up and point the lens in any direction, whatever emerges will be inspired.’ Her eyes were bright. She felt as though the reckless abandon all around her was somehow contagious, and she had been infected with it.

  They were being half pushed along by the crowds, caught up in their peculiar, rhythmic shuffle which harmonised perfectly to the music.

  Adam slipped his arm loosely around her shoulder, and she found herself linking her fingers through his. Wariness, caution, that instinct to draw up her defences every time she was with him, seemed inappropriate in this wild atmosphere.

  She grinned up at him and he bent down to brush her lips lightly with his.

  Christina pulled back with a jerk and his fingers tightened over hers so that she could not pull out of his hold. Not that she really wanted to. She liked the heavy feel of his arm around her, the closeness of his body, as filmed with perspiration as her own was.

  Everyone seemed to have their arms around someone else. There was a lot of innocent, joyous physical contact, and just for a while it was easy, all too easy, to forget her inhibitions, to imagine that she was the sort of stunning companion that he favoured, to forget the shortcomings of which she had been made all too painfully aware by Greg. She even found herself forgetting all about Frances, even though her image hovered on the outskirts of her consciousness, the little nagging voice of common sense to which she had temporarily closed her ears. Common sense was too mundane for this sort of explosive atmosphere, which was going to her head like a steady stream of alcohol.