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She was thankful to escape from the office and from Sheila’s searching gaze to keep her appointment with Dan Pearce, even though she was not really looking forward to dealing with him. She didn’t like the man at all. There was something about him…
Telling herself not to be so stupid, Charlotte got in her car and drove out in the direction of the farm. She had arranged to meet Dan Pearce at the cottages he was hoping to sell, and when she drew up outside them to find his battered Land Rover already there she suppressed a pang of disquiet.
There was no sign of the farmer outside the property, and so she opened the door to the first semi and walked in, calling his name. She could hear sounds of someone moving about upstairs and she put her hand on the worn handrail and went to investigate. She found the farmer in the first of the poky, stuffy bedrooms and realised as she approached the window that he must have watched her drive up. She frowned, recognising that he had made no attempt to come down and meet her, her unfamiliar feeling of disquiet growing as he turned round and leered at her.
‘Came, then, did you?’ he said to her. ‘That’s what you’re like, though, isn’t it, you women? Once you get a taste for it.’
Alarm bells were ringing in Charlotte’s brain. Instinctively she stepped back towards the door, but he moved faster, trapping her in the room as he closed the door and stood in front of it.
Fear knifed through her—the kind of fear she had never known could exist, the kind of fear she had deliberately closed her eyes to, just as she always preferred not to read about accounts of her sex being frightened and abused in the way that she now sensed this man wanted to frighten and abuse her.
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.
