been a catharsis and a release that had left him free for ever of
Chantelle.
To Samantha, it had been betrayal, and he knew that much was destroyed
by it. He felt terrible aching guilt, not for the act sexual
intercourse without love is fleeting and insignificant - but for the
betrayal and for the damage he had wrought.
Now he was uncertain, uncertain as to just how much he had destroyed,
how much was left for him to build upon. All that he was certain of was
that he needed her, more than he had needed anything in his life. She
was still the promise of eternal youth and of the new life towards which
he was groping so uncertainly. If love was needing, then he loved
Samantha Silver with something close to desperation.
She had told him she would not be there when he came.
He had to hope now that she had lied, he felt physically sick at the
thought that she meant it.
He had only a single Louis Vuitton overnight valise as cabin luggage so
he passed swiftly through customs, and as he went into the telephone
booths, he checked his watch. It was after six o'clock, she'd be home
by now.
He had dialled the first four digits of her number before he checked
himself.
What the hell am I phoning for? he asked himself grimly. To tell her
I'm here, so she can have a flying start when she runs for the bushes?
There is nothing so doomed as a timid lover. He dropped the receiver
back on its cradle, and went for the Hertz desk at the terminal doors.
What's the smallest you've got? he asked.
A Cougar/ the pretty blonde in the yellow uniform told him. In America,
small is a relative term. He was just lucky she hadn't offered him a
Sherman tank, The brightly painted Chevy van was in the lean-to shelter
under the spread branches of the ficus tree, and he parked the Cougar's
nose almost touching its tail-gate.
There was no way she could escape now, unless she went out through the
far wall of the shed. Knowing her, that was always a possibility, he
grinned mirthlessly.
He knocked once on the screen door of the kitchen and went straight in.
There was a coffee pot beside the range, and he touched it as he passed.
It was still warm.
He went through into the living room, and called Samantha! The bedroom
door was ajar. He pushed it open. There was a suit of denims, and some
pale transparent wisps of underwear thrown carelessly over the patchwork
quilt.
The shack was deserted, he went down the steps of the front stoop and
straight on to the beach. The tide had swept the sand smooth, and her
prints were the only ones. She had dropped her towel above the
high-watermark but he had to shade his eyes against the ruddy glare of
the lowering sun before he could make out her bobbing head - five
hundred yards out.
He sat down beside her towel in the fluffy dry sand and lit a cheroot.
He waited, while the sun settled in a wild, fiery flood of light, and he
lost the shape of her head against the darkening sea. She was half a
