Page 4 of Master of Comus

'You are good at it?'

She smiled, her teeth very even and white. 'I think so. I'm very highly paid.'

'You can paint while you are here,' he told her. Comus is an artist's paradise.'

She glanced out of the window at the hillside which fell away steeply to a shelving beach. 'Yes, I should say it was!'

'I am tired,' he said suddenly, relaxing against his pillows. 'Come and see me again tomorrow and tell me more about yourself. Paul will look after you tonight.'

She saw that he did, indeed, look pale, and she threw a look of anxious enquiry to Paul, who smiled reassuringly, taking her by the arm to lead her out of the room.

'Goodnight, Great-grandfather,' she said over her shoulder.

'Goodnight, Leonie,' he replied. 'I am sorry our first meeting is so short, but we will make up for it tomorrow.'

Paul waited on the landing for Clyte to re-emerge, and asked her to show Leonie to her room. Clyte led her to a large room at the back of the house looking on to the garden. It was as elegantly furnished as the rest of the house; ultra-comfortable with every modern convenience, including a shower cubicle and a television.

'Not,' said Paul later, 'that you can get much on the things. The transmitter only just reaches here. In calm weather one can get a good picture, but during a storm all you get is a blizzard of white dots.'

'I doubt if I shall want to watch it, anyway,' she said. 'I shan't be here long enough to exhaust the pleasures of sightseeing.'

He surveyed her insolently. 'I'd forgotten you were an artist. That explains a great deal.'

She knew she would regret asking, but she did ask. 'What does it explain?'

'Your self-assurance and hard opinions,' he drawled. 'Artists always have a high opinion of themselves and a low one of others.'

'I find such generalisations worthless,' she said crisply, determined not to be affected by the charming picture he made, lounging against the cocktail cabinet with a glass in his hand and his golden head honey-smooth in the lamplight.

The blue eyes brightened. 'I get the impression you think us all worthless: Argon, the villa and myself.' His smile taunted her. 'Isn't that so?'

'I have no idea of my great-grandfather yet. As for yourself ... well,' she shrugged, 'if the cap fits!'

'Tart as a lemon, aren't you?' he asked with amusement.

'You shouldn't ask for my opinion if you only want polite lies,' she said sturdily.

'Your opinion?' He straightened up, his eyes blazingly angry suddenly. 'Your opinion isn't worth a straw since you came here determined to despise the lot of us, determined to see nothing admirable or interesting on Comus. Your mind is like concrete. Nothing permeates it. You're a narrow-minded, bigoted little beast!'

Leonie felt a pricking of tears at the iciness of his tone. Honesty compelled her to admit the truth of much of what he had said, yet his frank condemnation still hurt.

'I'm an outsider here,' she flung back recklessly. 'For eighteen years my great-grandfather ignored my existence. Do you really expect me to be floored by all the evidences of his wealth and power, or, for that matter, by your famous charm and good looks? I may be prejudiced, but that's hardly surprising considering the circumstances!'

He put down his glass and came towards her, and she looked at him in alarm. His tone silky-smooth, he murmured, 'So my famous charm and good looks leave you cold, do they, dear cousin? I wonder...'

She involuntarily stepped back, frightened as much by the unaccustomed pounding of her own pulses as by the expression of intent menace on his face.

Paul caught her by the elbows and held her at arms' length, staring down with an odd expression at her uplifted features, their fine-boned strength softened by the lamplight into a sort of beauty. 'Your eyes are like pansies,' he whispered softly. 'They have little golden centres. A pity they are so cold.'

'Don't waste

your charm on me,' she snapped, 'I'm immune.'

He laughed at that, the insolent blue eyes caressing her face. 'Are you Sure? Why is that pulse beating at the base of your throat, then? Why are your fingers trembling as I hold you?'

'Let me go, damn you,' she whispered huskily. 'This phoney love talk of yours makes me want to throw Up!'

He laughed again, but harshly, and released her, although he continued to watch her closely. 'You have a nasty tongue, my love. So tell me—what makes you think you're immune? Another man? It usually is. What's he like, this Romeo of yours?'

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