He got a takeaway and a DVD and they ate and watched in between sessions on the sofa bed in one of the vast, almost empty, downstairs rooms.
He was sweet to her, complimentary and gentle, in between bouts of rough, very ungentle sex. He made her laugh. He could be thoughtful. And he was very, very generous with his pills.
So generous, in fact, that her boundaries began to blur. As the weeks passed, she was meeting him two or three nights a week for sex and drugs. It never occurred to her that the time to pay for all the free treats might be coming.
One night, she turned up at the Hall to find a group of his friends there. Tiggy was one of them, though most of the others were men.
They all got off their faces and ended up all over each other. Kayley’s memories of it all were pretty vague now, but she knew that at least three or four different men had done things to her. At one point she and Tiggy had put on a show for them, laughing and slurring and kissing all over the floor.
The next morning, she’d been horrified with herself and sworn never to touch another pill, but Lawrence always managed to talk her round and get her back in his clutches. In the end she was shagging random strangers most nights of the week, out of her mind on pills, doing whatever they wanted while the lines of her inhibitions were blurred into nothingness.
She couldn’t remember most of it.
But Lawrence had the pictures.
She wished she could say it ended when she found a shred of self-respect and walked away. But in fact, it ended in a blaze of ugly jealousy, when she took her friend Mia to one of the parties and her pretty, extrovert friend proved to be more popular with Lawrence’s crowd than she was.
What the hell had she been thinking? In what way was it a compliment that some arrogant dicks liked to gang-bang you? She could see now, with the benefit of long hindsight, that her self-esteem had been appalling, and so had Mia’s, but nobody could have told her that at the time. She’d have said, ‘It’s just a laugh,’ and explained that Lawrence and his posse were her friends. Some friends.
Oh well. They – and Mia – had done her a favour in the end. She’d flounced off, nursing her hurt feelings, and vowed to avenge herself by getting her qualifications and living her own life her own way.
And she’d done it.
Until suddenly the whole nasty business had reared its head again.
She let her tears soak into the slippery nylon of the old-fashioned sleeping bag, feeling an enormous weariness weighing down her whole bo
dy, but especially her heart.
What did Lawrence Harville mean to do to her?
And would she even make it out of there alive?
Chapter Twelve
‘SHE’S STILL GOT her phone switched off.’
Jason looked up from his easel and nodded tersely before getting back to work with his charcoals.
‘Well, maybe we should go up to her dad’s after. Make sure she’s OK,’ he suggested, his focus intent on the paper clipped to the board.
‘OK.’ Jenna twitched, feeling the onset of pins and needles in her left hand.
‘Keep still,’ growled Jason.
‘I can’t. My arm’s starting to go to sleep.’ She shook her hand vigorously and propped herself up on an elbow, giving Jason an accusing stare. ‘I wasn’t born to be a life model. And I’m getting cold in this ridiculous rig-out.’
She was wearing Jason’s favourite black underwear set with all the cut-outs, reclining on her reconditioned eighteenth-century chaise longue amidst a pile of marabou-trimmed cushions.
‘Five more minutes,’ he said. ‘I’m almost done with this sketch, I promise. Now, lie back down and think of England, babe.’
Jenna, clenching and unclenching her hand to restore life to her fingers, grinned at him.
‘I didn’t think that was the look you were aiming for,’ she said. ‘Staunch and patriotic.’
‘No, that’s true,’ said Jason. ‘Don’t think of England. Think of what my hands are going to be doing once they drop these charcoals and get hold of you.’
Jenna slid back into her reclining position with a happy sigh. Yes, that was worth thinking about. Never mind that her nipples were starting to throb in the draughty air of the morning room, or that the marabou cushions were slippery and about to fall off the chaise.