The Dark Shore by Susan Howatch Page B

would and could if she were obstinate. “Just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
    She smiled uncertainly, a faint fleeting smile, and pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead as if she were trying to decide what to say and finding it difficult. He felt his irritation grow, his patience fade, and he had to hold himself tightly in control to stem the rising tide of anger within him.
    Something in his eyes must have given him away; she stopped, her fingers still touching her hair, her body motionless, and as she looked at him he was suddenly seized with a violent longing to shake her by the shoulders and wrench the truth from behind the cool, composed expression.
    “Damn you,” he said quietly to the woman. “Damn you.”
    There was a noise. He stopped. The noise was a bell, hideous and insistent, a jet of ice across the fire of his anger. Pushing the woman aside, he leant across and reached for the cold black receiver of the telephone.
    “Jon—” she said.
    “It’s my son.” He picked up the receiver. “Jon Towers speaking.”
    “Call for you, Mr. Towers. Personal from Toronto from a Miss Sarah—”
    “Just a minute.” He thrust the receiver into the pillow, muffling it. “Go into the bathroom,” he said to the woman. “It’s a private call for me. Wait in the bathroom till I’ve finished.”
    “But—”
    “Get out!”
    She went without a word. The bathroom door closed softly behind her and he was alone.
    “Thank you,” he said into the receiver. “I’ll take the call now.”
    The line clicked and hummed. A voice said, “I have Mr. Towers for you,” and then Sarah’s voice, very clear and gentle, said, “Jon?” rather doubtfully as i f she found it hard to believe she could really be talking t o him across th e entire length of the Atlantic Ocean.
    “Sarah,” he said, and suddenly there were hot tears pricking his eyes and an ache in his throat. “I was going to phone you.”
    “Yes, I know,” she said happily, “but I simply couldn’t wait to tell you so I thought I’d ring first. Johnny, Aunt Mildred has come back to London a week early from her cruise—she got off at Tangier or something stupid because she didn’t like the food—and so I’ve now got a fully qualified chaperone earlier than I expected! Is it all right if I fly over to London the day after tomorrow?”
    Three
    1
    After Jon had replaced the receiver he sat motionless on the edge of the bed for a long moment. Presently the woman came out of the bathroom and paused by the door, leaning her back against the panels as she waited for him to look up and notice her.
    “You’d better go,” he said at last, not looking at her. “I’m sorry.” She hesitated, and then picked up her coat and slipped it quietly over her dress without replying straight away. But after a moment she said, “How long will you be in London?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    She hesitated again, toying with the clasp of her handbag as if she could not make up her mind what to say. “Maybe I’ll see you again if there’s time,” she said suddenly. “You’ve got my phone number, haven’t you?” He stood up then, looking her straight in the eyes, and she knew instinctively she had said the wrong thing. She felt her cheeks burn, a trick she thought she had outgrown years ago, and suddenly she was furious with him, furious at his casual invitation to his hotel, furious at the casual way he was dismissing her, furious because his casual manner was an enigma which she found as fascinating as it was infuriating.
    “Have a lovely wedding, won’t you,” she said acidly in her softest, sweetest voice as she swept over to the door. “I hope your fiancé e realizes the kind of man she’s marrying.” She had the satisfaction of seeing the color drain from his face, and then the next moment she was gone, slamming the door behind her, and Jon was again alone with his thoughts in his room on the sixth floor.
    2
    After a long while it