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Rape. Such a short but ugly word. A word she had never really focused on.
She tried to tell herself she was being foolish, over-imaginative, that she had misunderstood what he had said, and what he had left unsaid, but nothing could banish the panic now clawing inside her.
She tried to think, to stay calm, to lift herself past the fear blocking her ability to think and reason.
‘You wanted to discuss selling the cottages as a single unit, Mr Pearce,’ she said as firmly as she could. ‘I think that’s a sensible decision. Of course, planning permission would have—’
She heard him laugh and any hopes she might have had that she was mistaken, that he was not deliberately trying to intimidate her, that he had not brought her here for a purpose that had nothing to do with his property died.
As she stared into his unpleasant, overconfident, leering face, a feeling of intense dread washed over her. She looked desperately at the door, wondering if she could risk running past him, if she could take him off guard sufficiently for her to pull open the door, and then she saw the way he was grinning at her and she knew he was waiting for her to do just that very thing, so that he could have the pleasure of punishing her for it, and she shuddered in open revulsion.
Dear God, how had this happened? Why had she not realised? Sheila had warned her…or tried to…
Fear twisted and coiled inside her like a live thing, writhing, burning, making her want to be sick, to scream, to beat her fists against the walls entrapping her, to plead and beg for her freedom.
Fighting desperately not to give in to her panic, she said huskily, ‘Mr Pearce, it seems that we are both under a misapprehension. I thought you asked me here to discuss the sale of these houses.’
He was laughing openly at her now. ‘No, you didn’t,’ he told her. ‘You know what I want from you. I told you last time you was here I wasn’t going to sell ’em together. Like I said, living with that Londoner’s given you a taste for it. All the same, your sort—all airs and graces outside, but inside you’re no better than whores, leading a man on. Just the same as that whore I married. She was like you.’
He was mad, Charlotte thought frantically. He must be if he thought that she had actually encouraged him to believe… Where before it had been the sexual assault of her body she had feared, now she felt a sharp thrill of horror. He could rape and then murder her. No one would know. No one could help her.
As she watched him watching her, anticipating her pain, enjoying her panic, she had a fierce sensation of triumph that she had had last night—that whatever happened she had at least those memories of her time with Oliver to use as a shield against whatever this man might try to do to her.
She was afraid, yes—desperately so—but just thinking about Oliver, just remembering the pleasure he had given her, somehow steadied her and subdued her panic so that her brain started to work again, urging her to keep on talking to him, to try to distract him.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,’ she said as frigidly as she could, adding, ‘I don’t have a lot of time, Mr Pearce. I have another appointment in half an hour. In fact, my assistant will soon be wondering where I am, if I don’t return to the office.’
It wasn’t entirely untrue. She did have another appointment, but not for an hour. And in an hour…
‘You’re lying,’ he told her savagely. ‘But it won’t work. You came here because you’re just like all the rest.’
Charlotte tried desperately to blot out the words that spewed from his sick mind, to ignore and deny the horror of what he was threatening to do to her. He must
have been like this since his wife had left him, she recognised, wondering with another thrill of horror how many other women he might have subjected to the same ordeal he was now inflicting on her.
The air in the small room was stale, putrid almost, or was that her imagination? His hands were filthy, his nails broken and black; she cringed visualising them on her skin. Nausea built up inside her. She couldn’t endure much more. Her self-control was cracking already.
‘If you’re not prepared to discuss the sale of these properties, then I’m afraid I must leave,’ she told him, trying to appear confident, as she stepped towards the door.
For a moment she thought she had succeeded, and that he would simply let her go. He actually let her reach the door, stepping aside for her, and she was trembling as she touched the handle, relief flooding her. He had simply been testing her, frightening her. Her legs felt weak, her mouth dry.
And then, just as she turned the handle, he grabbed hold of her, turning her round and slamming her back against the door. The pain winded her, depriving her of the ability to even scream in protest.
She could feel his hot breath on her face, could feel the painful bite of his fingers through her clothes. Oh, God, why hadn’t she stayed where she was?
‘Like it a bit rough, do you?’ she heard him saying thickly. ‘Like being messed around a bit, like? My wife was like that. Oh, she used to scream and cry and pretend she hated it, but I knew different.’
Charlotte shuddered as she listened to him, all too easily picturing the other woman’s agony. How on earth had she endured her marriage? No wonder she had left him.
‘Yes, she liked it so much she used to claw at my back and beg me.’
Charlotte couldn’t help it. She covered her ears with her hands and screamed helplessly. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’
It was a mistake. Her stomach lurched as she realised that her panic was only exciting him, inciting him to gaze boldly at her body, his eyes hot, his fingers kneading her flesh where he held her as he focused on her breasts…
How long had she been here? How long would her ordeal last? She dared not even risk looking at her watch. Suddenly, terrifyingly, she wanted it to be over, and illuminatingly she could quite easily see why his wife had allowed him the possession of her body. It was simply easier not to fight, to allow him what he wanted and to get it over with.
Shudder after shudder racked through her as he watched her gloatingly, telling her what he intended to do with her. With every word he was becoming more excited, more unrestrained.
