Second Tomorrow by Anne Hampson Page A

Phil. ‘And in addition any help I can give.’
    ‘I’ll remember that,’ smiled Luke. ‘I might need it.’
    ‘See you later perhaps?’ Phil glanced at his sister, plainly relieved that she and Luke were no longer at loggerheads. He had initially been taken aback on being told of Luke’s offer to Clare, but almost immediately a perceptive glance at his sister revealed that he was assuming what she herself had first assumed: Luke was doing this in order to help Clare forget the past. ‘Will you be in the lounge?’
    Luke glanced at Clare. ‘Would you like a drinkafterwards?’ He and Clare had just ordered more coffee and were waiting for it to arrive.
    ‘Yes—all right.’ She was happy and it showed. Luke’s expression was one of satisfaction and, later, when they were seated in the candle-lit lounge, in a secluded corner by a window overlooking the sea, he remarked on her enthusiasm.
    ‘You know, Clare,’ he added after a pause, ‘you do have a zest for life, in spite of the way you’ve been for so many years.’
    ‘I wanted to die once,’ she reflected, not meaning to say anything like that but it just came out.
    ‘Forget it!’ he said peremptorily. ‘You’re young and life is for living.’
    She nodded her head, affected as always by his magnetic personality. He really was something out of the ordinary, and she had early in their acquaintanceship realised that she was not the only one affected by his superlative qualities, for he invariably attracted feminine attention, with the very natural result that she was conscious of an inner glow of pride when, as now, she happened to be with him. She had discovered that in spite of her pledge she was still all woman, able to enjoy the envy of her sex.
    ‘Life is different now,’ she admitted, shy all at once and a little unsure of herself. ‘I’m glad I came here.’
    ‘So am I, Clare,’ he returned slowly. ‘Phil told me about your going to that churchyard every week. Well, that’s no longer possible. It was amorbid thing to do anyway.’ His voice was stern, admonishing and, strangely, she was unable to resent it.
    ‘I suppose so, but it’s hard to make a man understand. . . .’
    Where was she going—drifting away from her memories like this, admitting that to go to the grave every week-end was morbid? She frowned at her thoughts and, glancing at her companion, suddenly found a response in the quick knitting of his brow.
    ‘Drink up,’ he ordered curtly, ‘and we’ll take a stroll outside.’
    She shook her head, on her guard instantly, remembering her resolve. ‘I don’t want—’
    ‘I’ll not rape you,’ he broke in, laughing at her expression. ‘At least, not unless you want me to.’
    ‘Stop it!’ she cried, aware that she had coloured from her neck upwards. ‘Do you have to spoil everything by saying things like that?’
    He studied her curiously. ‘It spoils . . . what, Clare?’ he wanted to know, an odd inflection in his voice.
    ‘Well. . . .’ She had no immediate answer to a question that took her by surprise. ‘We were getting along,’ she added, because she herself was evading an answer.
    ‘So we were.’ His dark eyes still focused her face as he went on, a hint of mockery in his finely-timbered voice, ‘I must learn to guard my tongue, so that we can continue to get along.’ He rose as he spoke; she had finished her drink and with an inperious gesture he brought her upwith him, his strong brown fingers transmitting the magic touch of ecstasy as they curled firmly around hers. Was she playing with fire? It was far too romantic out there, in the tropical gardens of the hotel. Lonely and quiet and mysterious. You felt you had the whole wide world to yourself; she knew because she had walked there alone many times since coming to work for her brother.
    ‘I . . . it’s late,’ she faltered, trying to hold back. ‘I feel rather tired—’
    ‘Not tired,’ he broke in with a hint of sardonic