But the remainder of the evening was already lost on her. She made a good job of pretending that she was entering into the swing of things, dancing along with everyone else, but ever so often she would find her mind wandering off to Adam, like a stubborn dog determined to stray from its leash, and when that happened she would make an extra effort to concentrate on whoever was with her.
She also found that she was drinking far more than she normally did. The drinks were alluring, heady cocktails with rum and local fruit juices that only seemed to start having any effect when it was much too late to do anything about it.
It did have the distinct advantage of putting her in more of a party mood, however, and by midnight she found that she was really having a very good time indeed. So, it seemed, was the man with whom she was dancing, and who, from the expression on his face, found her quite amusing and witty.
She was giggling at something which, in her blurry state of mind, had seemed wildly funny, when she happened to glance up and right into Adam’s eyes.
He was standing by the door with Frances leaning against him, his arm circling her waist, and he was looking directly at her.
Christina smiled broadly at him and waved, nearly teetering over in the process. Not, she thought blearily, that he seemed to appreciate her good humour. Not judging from the dark expression on his face as he forged a way through the crowds to where she was still dancing with the man, identity unknown.
He had disengaged Frances from him. Christina could just see her pouting in the company of Janessa, who had made remarkably little effort to socialise during the evening. No doubt the pair of them would find a certain sympathy moaning together. The thought made her grin even harder, though it evaporated when, a few seconds later, she felt her arm being held in a vice-like grip.
‘The lady’s with me,’ Adam informed her dancing partner, who retreated, nodding.
‘I’m not with you,’ Christina pointed out, punctuating her observation with a little hiccup at the end. ‘So there.’
Adam wasn’t listening. He was too busy dragging her across the room towards the exit.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he demanded as soon as they were outside. ‘You’ve drunk far too much. You’re not accustomed to drink. It goes to your head. Now where the hell’s your bedroom key?’
Christina wanted to protest. She also wanted to inform him that he was most definitely not the appointed guardian of her moral well-being, but her tongue appeared to be glued to the roof of her mouth.
She fished the key out of her tiny purse and he took it away from her, his face still grim.
‘This is the last thing I expected to be doing with you,’ he muttered, pulling her towards the lift. ‘I would have thought that you would have more sense than to ply yourself with cocktails.’
‘I’m terribly sensible,’ Christina agreed, fumbling over her words, and she smiled up at him. She didn’t feel terribly sensible at the moment. Her head was swimming and she knew, in that little part of her still rational, that in the morning she would probably wake up with a crashing hangover. Not a pleasant prospect.
He had reached her bedroom door. He unlocked it and escorted her inside, turning to switch on the light.
She had left the air-conditioner running and the room was beautifully cool. Wonderfully cool.
‘I’m fine,’ she told him, shaking her hair away from her face. ‘I’m marvellous, in fact. On top of the world. I can take care of myself from here.’
‘You couldn’t tie your own shoelace,’ he replied brusquely, then he began rummaging through her drawers.
‘What are you doing?’ Christina asked with interest.
He turned to face her briefly, his blue eyes impatient. ‘What do you think? Or have you gone beyond the ability to think? I’m going to get you into bed.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHRISTINA felt a little groggy, true enough, but not so groggy that she didn’t feel a very real quiver of alarm run through her.
‘I don’t need your help,’ she managed to say, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her head was beginning to feel a little strange and she had a sudden, desperate desire to go to sleep.
‘Now’s not the time for your usual stubbornness.’ He had found her pyjamas, blue and white striped shorts and a matching top with buttons down the front, and he eyed them sceptically.
‘I don’t like those awful things with lace and plunging necklines,’ Christina said defensively, spoiling the impact of her remark with a wide yawn.
She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. She was drifting on a cloud somewhere very calm and peaceful.
With a muttered oath, Adam began taking off her shoes, and she protested feebly that she wanted him to leave her room. Immediately. What would everyone think? What would Frances think?
‘This isn’t Paddington station,’ he pointed out, pulling her up into a sitting position. ‘There’s no one around. As for Frances, she’s an enjoyable part of my life...’
‘But only for the moment?’ Another wide yawn and a lazy stretch that felt good.
‘Maybe,’ he said softly, ‘but maybe not. Maybe she’s just the sort of woman I should marry—beautiful and not the sort to relish nights in in front of the fire and days spent in front of a stove. She’s definitely no clinging vine. What do you think?’
His words hurt; she could feel that even through the pleasant haze wrapped around her. There was a sting of unshed tears in her eyes, but it was too much effort to cry. Anyway, crying was the one thing she would never do in front of him.
‘Is that why you’re here?’ she asked, voicing her suspicions of earlier on. ‘To see whether she’s marriage potential?’
‘Would that be such a bad idea?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t care. Why are you asking me all these questions when all I want to do is go to sleep?’
‘Why indeed?’ he murmured, but her eyes were closed and his voice was a muddled background sound.
He unzipped her dress at the back and she lay back down on the bed, heavily, looking at him from under her lashes. She knew that she shouldn’t be here, in this dangerous situation, with her heart thudding a mile a minute, but her limbs were as heavy as lead.
Four cocktails, she thought dimly. Most normal people could gulp down twice that number and still be perfectly in control. But then, she acknowledged, most people were probably more used to drink than she was. She hardly ever touched the stuff and she certainly had no idea as to what her limits were.
He reached to tug down her dress and the contact of his hands on her shoulders made her skin burn.
His face, though, was expressionless, as if he was quite accustomed to doing this sort of thing. Which he probably was, she thought. Or at least the undressing part. She doubted he had much experience in the field of helping inebriated women into bed. Frances of the marriage potential didn’t strike her as the sort to become inebriated. Hair out of place? Make-up every which way?
The thought made her giggle and their eyes met for an instant, then he lowered his and gently eased her dress off her.
Underneath the fine cotton, she was completely naked except for a pair of briefs. She could see the rise and fall of her breasts, the nipples hardened by the cool air pouring out of the air-conditioner.
She wondered what it would be like if he reached out and touched them. They were aching to be caressed. She had to fight hard to stifle the groan of desire that was spreading through her. She wasn’t thinking straight, she knew that, but for some reason she still couldn’t get her act together.
‘Sit up,’ he commanded shortly, averting his eyes from her nudity.
‘You’re emba...embarrassed,’ she giggled again, a little hysterically this time, and she saw a dull flush creep into his face.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said roughly, ‘I’ve seen a naked woman before.’
She was breathing quickly, oddly uninhibited by her state of undress. She might not be a raving beauty, but she had neve
r been ashamed of her body. As far as bodies went she was, in fact, rather proud of it: slim, long-legged, with a small waist and full breasts. She relaxed back on the bed, supporting herself on her elbows, and looked at him as he unbuttoned her pyjama top and held it out to her.
Was it her imagination or did he look decidedly less in control than he had when they had first entered the bedroom?
‘Get your arms in here,’ he said gruffly, sitting on the bed next to her, and she gave him a wide smile, then she stretched, a feline movement that stretched the muscles in her neck and made her feel much better.
‘Don’t do that,’ he muttered, and she looked at him, wide-eyed.
‘Why not?’
‘Just get dressed, would you?’
She slipped her arm into one of the sleeves, then the other, and wondered dreamily how it was possible to feel so relaxed.
The world was spinning around, but gently.
He reached to button the top and she stopped him, moving his hand to cover the full swell of her breast.
Oh, God, this was sheer madness. She knew that even though the train of thought was a little blurry. But it was a madness she suddenly, desperately, wanted to explore. She arched back and with a stifled groan he rubbed his fingers over her swollen nipple. He was breathing quickly and unsteadily, and she felt as though she were in the grip of an overwhelming fever that was draining what little resources she had left.
He reached out with the other hand until he was caressing both her breasts, rolling his thumb on her nipples and sending darts of pleasure through her.
So this, then, was the nature of passion. She had never in her life experienced anything like it before.
She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, willing him to continue the marvellous exploration of her body. She could feel her body burning under his touch, then his mouth was playing on her breasts and she moaned with ecstasy as his tongue flicked the aching peaks.
She was hardly aware of reaching out, drawing his dark head harder against her. She could have gone on forever, but he abruptly pulled himself free and stood up.
Christina opened her eyes. Her body was still moist and trembling and she could see that he was as feverish as she was.
‘Oh, God,’ he muttered, running his fingers through his hair and looking away from her, ‘I must have been crazy just then.’
His words were like a bucket of cold water over her, and had the instant effect of doing what no amount of black coffee could have done. They sobered her.
She looked down in confusion and began buttoning up her pyjama top, desperate now to cover herself. She didn’t know what to say. Of course she could blame it on the drink, and the drink certainly had been responsible for lowering her inhibitions, but beyond that she had responded with a fervour that now frightened her.
She had wanted him, desperately, and she knew that if she was to be honest with herself that desire had nothing to do with four cocktails.
She still felt aroused even now, and that alone made her want to die.
‘I had no intention of taking advantage of the situation,’ he said under his breath, and Christina looked away. If that was what he thought, then she had no intention of persuading him otherwise. She knew that she had invited his response, but the last thing she wanted to do was to show him how much she had wanted him.
‘It was my mistake as well,’ she conceded grudgingly. She slipped on the striped shorts without looking at him at all.
Her head felt as clear as a bell, and all she wanted now was to be on her own.
‘If you don’t mind,’ she continued, her eyes still averted, ‘I’m all right now. Thank you for bringing me back to the room.’ She almost choked on saying that, but she had every intention of retreating from this disastrous fiasco with as much of her dignity intact as possible.
He looked as if he might say something further and she found that she was holding her breath, willing him to leave. She didn’t feel she could face him a moment longer. Those eyes saw too much and she didn’t want them to see what she was feeling right now: humiliated, confused, vulnerable.
He turned around and walked out of the room, closing the door with a click behind him, and Christina felt her body sag, then she stood up and went across to the door and locked it.
The effect of the drink had vanished. Unfortunately. Because it meant that her thoughts were horribly lucid.
She switched off the light and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness.
How could she have been such a fool? Had her reaction to him been a throw-back to that burning, intense infatuation she had felt all those years ago, or worse, had she always been attracted to him, even when she’d thought that she had successfully recovered from her girlish lovesickness?
Not that it mattered. The fact remained that she had been consumed with passion. She closed her eyes, horrified at the image of herself, provocative and abandoned. She had never, ever done that with anyone in her life before, and if anyone had told her that she would behave like that in front of Adam Palmer she would have laughed in their face.
How was she going to live that awful episode down? She hoped that he would not gloat. Maybe he was gloating now, she thought. Deep down she knew that he was not the type, but she continued to torture herself. She imagined him letting himself into Frances’s room, lying on the bed with her, telling her about his amusing little adventure. Frances, the woman he wanted to marry; that she remembered with desperate, depressing clarity. Oh, God.
She imagined him snickering at the thought that still waters ran deep, that plain little Tina had practically begged for him to make love with her. The ugly duckling had tried to act the part of the seductive swan.
She held her hands over her face and tasted the salty tears as they trickled down her cheeks.
She must never let him know how badly the whole thing had affected her. She would pretend that it was a little, laughably unfortunate blip on an otherwise well ordered life should he mention a word. She would toss her head and joke that she would have to keep away from the demon drink.
She fell asleep and awoke the following morning with a crashing headache.
She dragged herself out of the bed, took two aspirin, and, for the first time since she had arrived, applied a generous helping of make-up to camouflage the pallor of her face and the dark shadows under her eyes.
She had no idea how she was going to face him, but she didn’t have to, because when she arrived at the large, sunny room where breakfast was served it transpired that he had not yet come down.
Everyone else was there, though, including Frances, who gave her dark looks but didn’t say a word, and they were all much too excited about the carnival to spare much thought for Christina.
They had decided to split into two groups to cover the maximum amount of ground. There were quite a number of bands, the costumes would all be fabulous, and it seemed a shame not to make full use of their resources.
Christina felt the stirrings of excitement that always accompanied a new job. And this one was going to be more challenging than most. She would have to photograph an atmosphere as much as anything else, and that called for a tremendous amount of skill.
She and Jennifer were going to go their own way, with Sam and the photographer whose job she was doing. They agreed to go as a foursome, but to branch out if the situation demanded it.
They all trooped out of the hotel with still no sign of Adam, and it was only when they were in the taxi, on their way downtown, that that haunted feeling left her.
Everywhere there were crowds of people, thousands of them. The streets echoed with music. Even when you couldn’t actually hear any, you could feel it, as though it had worked its way to your bones and stayed there.
But it was the sight of the costumes that brought an awe-inspired silence to the group. They had dropped off at the meeting-point for one of the bigger bands, and now, standing in the square, Christina looked around her, dazzled by the display of c
olour and imagination. Everywhere there was a swirling of bright costumes. Groups of friends, attired in similar magnificent designs, talked together. She could hear the excited laughter in their voices and then she pulled out her camera and seemed to become one with the ambience. She completely forgot the presence of the other three. They were all adults, they could take care of themselves, but she simply had to drink in every single little sight around her.
She had brought several rolls of film with her, and she realised that she would have to be careful or else she would end up exhausting her supply on just one band, when there were others to see.
It was an unbelievable spectacle: hundreds and hundreds of people, all dressed in their blazing costumes, comprising a band, and each band carried its own theme, so that every different costume was fundamentally linked to the other.
And everything shimmered under the heat. The sound of the steel band began, the revellers grouped into their sections, and the dancing began.
Christina had no idea where the others had vanished to. She looked around her and then decided to abandon the attempt. She let herself be carried along by the music and by the sheer volume of people.
As the band crossed through the streets she branched away, leaving it behind to join another, winding its way along like an enormous, surrealistic snake, and all the time her fingers were clicking madly on her camera as she tried to capture everything.
She was hardly aware of the day flying past. She grabbed some lunch from a vendor at the side of the street and bought a cup of water which she desperately needed, and carried on.
By six in the evening, she realised that she was running on sheer momentum, and by the time she finally made it back to the hotel at a little after seven her feet were killing her.
Rather than return immediately to her room, she went to one of the bars for something long and cool to drink. Not very many people were around. They were still enjoying the tail-end of the day, she assumed, and gearing themselves up for the following day, when the spectacle would be repeated but in a grander style. The bands would be competing in front of judges, every costume would be meticulously in place, and Christina planned on taking at least an extra three rolls of film to be on the safe side.
Unwilling Surrender Page 11
