An Imperfect Affair

by Natalie Fox

  ‘And I’m not an easily scared child,’ she told him sweetly. ‘I’m not afraid of the dark or things that go bump in the night, so off you go.’

  She carried on up the stairs, thinking what a little liar she was. Last night, with a hulk in the house, she’d been scared. Tonight could be worse; she would be totally alone. She hoped he didn’t plan on staying out all the night.

  Later she lay in bed, waiting, listening to every creak and groan of the old house. She knew she wouldn’t sleep till he was home. The evening had been long and unnerving and annoying. So they had agreed to do their own thing, but he might have lit the fire for her before he’d gone out. She’d struggled for what seemed like hours to get the kindling going, and then the big olive logs had refused to ignite and in a temper she had abandoned it and retired to her room to work. Cold had driven her into bed at around eleven, and now at twelve he still wasn’t home!

  ‘You’re beginning to think like a wife,’ she murmured to herself. She rolled on to her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. Was his lady his wife? No, he would have said. A wife would have been an even bigger deterrent, but perhaps that lady was going to be his wife and that wouldn’t have stopped him kissing her this morning. He’d been here a week already and a man had needs ... Stop it!

  Verity sat up, a cold sweat misting her brow, one of the after-effects of that bout of flu. A cup of hot tea usually put her to rights. She swung her long legs out of the bed and reached for the bedside light. Nothing happened when she flicked the switch. Nothing happened when she tried the main light by the door. Mild panic built up to mania as she lurched across the pitch-dark room and hauled open the curtains at the window. No moon. No light; nothing but the terrifying darkness.

  ‘Don’t panic!’ she breathed, taking great gulps of air to calm herself. ‘There are matches down by the fireplace and candles in the kitchen larder. All you have to do is get downstairs without breaking your neck and find them. Easy.’

  Verity lost her footing on the uneven steps the last flight into the sitting-room. She grazed her knees as she pitched forward on to the cold stone floor and bit back tears of frustration at her own stupidity. She should have stayed in bed till daylight—any sensible person would have done that instead of risking life and limb in an unfamiliar setting. She struggled to her feet and touched her knees and let out a cry of pain.

  ‘What the...?’

  Verity stiffened in fright, heard the squeak of leather and was aware of movement close by. Someone was in the room!

  ‘Rupert?’ Her cry reached the volume of a hysterical scream and echoed terrifyingly loudly in the vast room.

  ‘I’m here; it’s OK, I’m here.’

  She heard a muffled curse as his foot came in painful contact with the edge of the sofa and then she felt him grip her shoulders, and another cry, this time of relief, tore from her throat as she threw herself into his arms.

  Her fingers clawed at his warm, comforting sweater and then wrapped frantically around his neck. Her whole body went into a spasm of violent shaking and, teetering on her toes, she pressed her cold wet cheek to his for comfort.

  He held her tightly, securely, his warm mouth brushing her forehead. ‘It’s all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he soothed.

  ‘There’s no light,’ she whimpered like a small child.

  He laughed softly against her. ‘I know. The whole village is out. I came back right away. You’re terrified.’ His hand came up to touch her cheek. She was hot now. ‘You’ve a fever. How old are you?’

  Her brow puckered into a frown. ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Not the menopause, then?’

  His attempt at humour brought her down to earth with a bump. He was still holding her tightly with one arm, and she... she was still clinging to him like some poor demented soul.

  ‘No, just the after-effects of some antibiotics I’ve been taking.’ She pulled out of his arms in embarrassment. Thank God he couldn’t see her face; it was probably scarlet and blotchy, with little to do with the fever. She had thrown herself at him in sheer relief, and he probably thought the worst.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted, ‘sorry for throwing myself at you. I was a bit scared and then I fell down the steps.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ He didn’t give her a chance to answer but swept her up into his arms and deposited her on to the leather sofa in front of the fireplace. It felt warm through the thin satin of her nightdress, and she supposed he had been lying here in the darkness. The thought unsettled her, more so when he scooped a fleecy blanket round her, and that was warm too. Had he been sleeping here?

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ She bit her lip; that sounded as if she had been listening out for him. She had, but... ‘Rupert?’

  His voice called back from the kitchen. ‘I’m just getting some candles and firelighters.’

  Seconds later he was back with both. ‘You must have cat’s eyes to see your way around,’ Verity remarked.

  He lit the candle and placed it on the stone hearth. The small flame momentarily highlighted fatigue in his face. ‘I’ve been here longer than you; I’m used to the place—used to power cuts too.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go up to your room, then? You were sleeping down here, weren’t you?’

  ‘Does it matter where I sleep?’ He gave his attention to the fire.

  ‘Not really, but you look shattered, and bed is the place to sleep.’

  ‘And a place to make love.’

  ‘Sofas make good substitutes too.’ She didn’t know why she’d said that.

  ‘Is that an offer?’

  She gave a small nervous laugh and wished she’d thought before speaking. She tightened the blanket around her. ‘No, it wasn’t and you know it.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort. I hardly know you enough to hazard a guess at what’s going through your mind.’

  ‘I can see that in future I’ll have to be very careful what I say to you.’

  ‘Your energies would be better employed with keeping out of my way altogether,’ he said drily.

  ‘Yeah, not so easy when you burst into my bedroom and lurk around down here, waiting for me to fall downstairs.’ She tried to inject some light-heartedness into that statement. He really could be quite a sombre and humourless man when he wanted to be, which she thought on reflection was probably most of the time.

  ‘It seems to me you put yourself into these situations on purpose, and I wasn’t lurking down here like a crazed psychopath waiting to pounce on you. What were you doing down here anyway?’

  The fire suddenly blazed brightly and he sat back on his haunches, staring into the flames. Verity watched him, suppressing yet another sigh. Would he ever believe she wasn’t after his body?

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, and don’t read anything into that. I decided to make some tea, but when I tried the lights there was nothing. I remembered there were candles down here and, well, you know the rest.’

  He turned suddenly and looked at her. ‘When you threw yourself into my arms you were terrified.’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you be?’ she retorted hotly. ‘I thought I was alone in the house with no power, and I’d just fallen down the stairs and then I heard this sound. You could have been that crazed psychopath, for all I knew.’

  ‘And you were so relieved it was me—’

  ‘I threw myself into your arms,’ she finished for him. ‘Very understandable in the circumstances, I’d say—after all, I am a woman.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he conceded.

  ‘What, suppose I’m a woman?’

  He half smiled. ‘No doubt in my mind about that, but I meant I suppose it’s understandable that you threw yourself into my arms.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose you’re well used to it!’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment.’

  ‘I was being sarcastic.’

  He turned back to the fire. ‘So was I,’ he murmured.

  Verity’s lips thinned with annoyance. ‘You’re quit
e a cool cookie, aren’t you? I can’t imagine you having a lady in your life. I get the distinct impression you don’t like them very much.’

  ‘I don’t, not since...’ He positioned more logs on the fire and she wondered why he didn’t finish what he was saying. ‘I usually manage quite successfully to ward off preying females,’ he went on, ‘but some are more persistent then others.’

  His words were so loaded that she knew instinctively that he wasn’t referring to his lady but her!

  ‘May I remind you that I’m not interested in you in any shape, size or form? I’ve already had a disastrous relationship with one of your species, and I’m not looking for trouble a second time around.’

  ‘Man-hater, are you? That really surprises me.’

  From here she could quite easily place her foot between his shoulder-blades and pitch him head first into the fire, but he really wasn’t worth the trouble and the mess.

  ‘I must admit to a certain loathing for a certain type—yours. You remind me of my deceased boyfriend, as it happens. He was a miserable, sarcastic moody too.’

  He took that, right in the back of the head, and didn’t even flinch at her insult, though she had a strong feeling it had hit home. Remorse seized her. He wasn’t Mike and to compare the two had been unjust.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ he said quietly.

  He stood up and turned towards her and she wondered if he had accepted it. His eyes were unfathomable, his jawline surprisingly tense. She had hurt him.

  ‘Any injuries?’ he asked.

  Her thoughts were diverted by his enquiry and she pulled the blanket off her legs and was dismayed to see that her nightie had risen up over her thighs. She pulled it down quickly but not quick enough for him not to have had a good eyeful of most of her long slim legs. The expression on his face gave nothing away, but nevertheless Verity felt hot with shame.

  ‘Only my knees,’ she husked. Both were grazed and one quite swollen and already blue. They didn’t hurt any more, so she supposed that there was no structural damage.

  ‘They need bathing,’ Rupert told her quietly. ‘The floor here isn’t too clean.’

  He went back to the kitchen before Verity could retaliate by retorting, ‘Whose fault’s that?’

  She leaned back and waited for his return and wished with all her heart she hadn’t ventured out of bed—in fact, she wished she’d never come to Spain in the first place. It wasn’t working out well at all. But what were her prospects of going back, say, tomorrow? She’d have no job, and a fiery row with her cousin was on the cards, not that she couldn’t handle that. They’d practically grown up together and she knew his weaknesses—money and Angie. Though she didn’t dislike Angie, she didn’t exactly like her either. Angie was a name-dropper, a social climber, the sort of woman who would push her husband to his limits to get the material acquisitions she seemed to thrive on—their enormous house in Barnet, the Porsche, the holidays in Mexico. Verity was beginning to think this very situation was probably engineered by her! She would have to find out.

  ‘You said there’s a phone in the village; is it easy to find?’ she asked him when he came back with a first-aid kit and a couple of glasses. She wondered what the glasses were for.

  ‘There’s a public call box in the plaza, but I’d advise you to use the phone in the Bar Especho. It’s metered, so you can pay for it after. There’s nothing more off-putting than feeding a coin box. I presume you want to phone home.’

  ‘No one at home to call,’ she told him, watching as he went to the sideboard and took out a bottle of dubious-looking Spanish brandy. ‘I live alone in London. My parents are divorced. My mother lives in Canada with her new husband and my father’s a doctor in South Africa and lives with his stethoscope.’

  He looked grim. ‘I get the picture. I suppose that contributed to the break-up of the marriage.’

  ‘My father’s a workaholic and always has been. I don’t even know how they got together long enough to produce me.’

  He smiled at that and Verity thought he ought to do it more often: it suited him, creased his face in an endearing way. He poured two brandies, put them down on the floor by the sofa, knelt in front of her and clicked open the first-aid box.

  ‘I couldn’t boil any water, I’m afraid, no electricity, but there’s antiseptic lotion in here. Can you suffer the pain?’ He took out cotton wool and upended the bottle to soak it.

  Verity realised that he intended to deal with it himself. Her heart contracted at the thought. If she let him he might think it another come-on; if she didn’t he’d think any physical contact would be disturbing to her. Strange, but it would. Already she was tensing in anticipation. He dabbed at the graze.

  ‘Ouch,’ she cried, ‘that stings!’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby, it’s hardly a scratch. Have a sip of brandy if you’re so squeamish.’ He reached down to the glass and handed it to her.

  ‘So that’s what it’s for, to deaden the pain.’ She took a sip and shuddered and took another sip.

  ‘Partly. I also thought it might knock you out for the night and we both might get some peace,’ he told her drily.

  ‘Very funny!’ She gritted her teeth as he dabbed at the other graze, then she gritted every nerve-ending in her body as he gripped her thigh above her knee to hold her still. The effect on her senses was electrifying. She forgot the stinging pain of her knee and the stinging pain of the brandy on her throat. There was only one sensation hurtling through her: his touch on her warm thigh. It was more of a grip than a touch, but the thought of it softening to a sensuous caress had her temperature soaring. No, that’s not possible, she reasoned. I must be in shock!

  ‘I think that’s good enough,’ he murmured, and looked up at her. ‘Verity, are you all right?’ He took the glass from her clenched fingers and put it down on the floor.

  She swallowed, hard. No, she wasn’t. She felt sick at what her body was screaming out to her, that she wanted his touch to soften, she wanted him to caress her intimately. So this morning hadn’t been a temporary aberration of her mind. He had aroused her and could so easily do so again, and she didn’t really know what she would do if he did.

  She held his eyes painfully, and because he didn’t take his hand away she knew he knew what she was thinking. His eyes were impenetrable but that mean mouth had softened.

  The touch lightened and she thought he was going to pull away, and then very slowly he lowered his head to her thigh. His lips brushed her silky flesh causing a rush of fiery blood to her head, so overwhelmingly that she nearly cried out. His lips lingered, sensuously, then moved higher up her thighs.

  ‘No,’ she breathed raggedly, and her hands went jerkily to his head. His hair was soft and unexpectedly silky under her fingers and she wanted to tear at it to hurt him, but instead they coiled into its thickness, drawing him into her. A low groan of pain came to his throat and his hands slid her satin nightie higher and higher, trailing warm, sensuous kisses over her newly exposed skin.

  ‘Rupert, please, don’t...’

  His head came up at her strangled plea, and as their eyes locked she saw such deep anger that her heart thudded furiously at the injustice of it all.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she breathed, pulling her nightie down and trying to get up. ‘I’m the one who should be damned furious. How dare you do that to me?’

  ‘Arouse you?’ he cried, standing up. ‘Have the bloody decency to admit your sexuality instead of trying to hide it with soft, puritanical pleas of no! You want me as much as I want you, so quit the baby-talk.’

  She struggled to her feet and faced him angrily. ‘Well, our good resolutions didn’t last long, did they? How long have we been together in this house...twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight hours— oh, who the devil is counting?’ Her mind seemed to snap, and furiously she started to unbutton the tiny glass buttons at her breast. ‘Let’s get it over with now, th
en perhaps we can both get on with our lives!’

  His hands locked over hers, so fiercely that she bit her lower lip. Tears welled in her eyes, blinding her to the sudden softening of his. Her head suddenly cleared and she realised what she had done, and her whole body stiffened with horror and shame. Slowly he drew her into his arms and held her tenderly.

  ‘You didn’t mean that, did you?’ he breathed into her hair.

  ‘Of course not, you bastard,’ she sobbed, so deeply ashamed that she wanted to die. ‘Brandy makes me mad as Hades!’

  She felt him laugh in her hair and slowly he lifted her chin and lowered his lips to hers. No kiss of passion but one of sweet tenderness, and when it was over he said poignantly, ‘Go to bed, Verity, the time isn’t right for us yet.’

  She didn’t question that remark but simply drew away from him without looking at him. As she bent down to pick up the candle to light her way up to bed she knew that something had started, something that might be hard to stop.

  Upstairs, confused and weary, she slid back into bed and lay with her eyes wide open. That something loomed black and menacing in her mind, blinding her to any sort of coherent thinking. Rupert Scott’s lady wasn’t much of a deterrent to either of them at the moment, and that was a dangerous thought, even more dangerous than the idea that that awful man was having a devastating effect on her emotional needs. Tonight she had wanted him to love her, or did she just want him to make love to her?

  Verity pulled the sheet around her face and bit her lip to stop the tears. She had never felt more lonely and desolate in her life before.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  So now Verity knew why Stuart was so desperate for Rupert Scott’s advertising package.

  She had let a week pass before making the call to her cousin and probably wouldn’t have made it at all if her work had been going well, but it wasn’t, and she thought her concern for her cousin was causing the block. It certainly wasn’t anything to do with Rupert Scott. She’d convinced herself that vulnerability was a great deceiver of true feelings. She didn’t want him—the idea was ridiculous. She was lonely and probably a bit depressed after her illness and that accounted for her silly behaviour on the night of the power cut. Rupert was coping; why couldn’t she?