by Helen Brooks
'Yes…' Her voice was breathless, but not through vigorous exercise. The feel of that hard male body next to hers, his furry coating of body hair coarse against her softness, was making coherent thought difficult.
'Prove it.' He kissed her once, very hard on the lips, before lifting her right out of the water and throwing her some feet away into the deeper part of the pool. When she emerged, gasping and spluttering, he was there beside her, grinning at her outraged expression.
'You could have warned me.' She glared at him, her hair a mass of tight red curls on which the drops of water sat like diamonds.
'I could have…' he agreed lazily.
And there began a crazy game of tag, the likes of which Josie hadn't enjoyed since she was a child. And quite when it happened she didn't know, but by the time they emerged from the water to lie on the sun-warmed loungers she knew… beyond all reasonable doubt. She loved him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Josie must have slept in the warmth of the evening sun, but some sixth sense suddenly brought her awake to find herself staring straight into Luke's eyes where he lay propped on his lounger watching her.
She couldn't remember falling asleep; she certainly hadn't intended to as she had lain there stiff and taut, her mind exploring endless possibilities and explanations that would refute what her heart was telling her. She couldn't love him. It was madness. And besides, she didn't want to—she didn't want to love anyone, least of all Luke Hawkton. But… she did. Helplessly. And certainly hopelessly.
'Sleeping Beauty…' He smiled lazily as his eyes stroked over her face. 'There aren't many women who look more beautiful without make-up, but you are one of them.'
'Very gallant but a definite exaggeration.' She smiled as she spoke but her movements were jerky as she sat up, adjusting her bikini as she did so. The wet silk had folded in on itself a little over her thighs, and was getting dangerously near the needle-thin scar at the bottom of her stomach. Nothing could have reminded her more poignantly that any attraction between herself and Luke was doomed. She wouldn't survive a casual, light affair, but she couldn't ask for more either.
'I don't think so.' That warmth in his eyes meant nothing, she told herself brutally as she smiled again without answering, rising from the lounger and slipping into the sarong she had brought down with her then pushing her damp hair away from her face. Nothing beyond lust, anyway. 'You're retreating again.' His voice was very low and very deep, and she shivered slightly as she forced herself to look into his face. 'And after I was so magnanimous about our…disagreement before lunch, too.'
'I'm sorry?' Her voice was cool and she blessed the strength that was coming from…somewhere.
'Out therein the pool we had fun,' he said quietly. 'Didn't we?'
'Yes, but—'
'And now you're withdrawing again, going back into that steel-plated armour of yours.' There was a bite of anger in his voice that was reflected in the dark colour on his high cheekbones. 'Why? What the hell is it about me you find so hard to take anyway?'
'I don't find you hard to take, Luke,' she said carefully as her stomach lurched and spun. She needed time to convince herself that all this was just a mirage, time to persuade her heart to believe the lie that she didn't love him. She didn't need this sort of challenge right now. She should have known—she should have guessed what was happening to her weeks ago, guessed why she was so affected by him. Why hadn't she? Why on earth hadn't she? she asked herself bleakly. And it was too late now. Pandora's box had been opened.
'Sure you don't.' There was a rawness in his voice now that hit a nerve in her, causing her to flinch slightly, and, tiny though the movement was, he caught it and his rage increased. 'And don't do that either,' he ground out through clenched teeth as he too stood upright.
'Do what?' She was aware that his self-control was on a knife-edge, but quite how the sudden confrontation had erupted she wasn't sure; she only knew she had to keep calm and quiet.
'Cower away from me as though I'm some sort of wild animal,' he growled furiously. 'Damn it all, Josie, I've worn kid gloves for the last few weeks and still it's not enough. What the hell do you want from me anyway?'
'Nothing.' Everything, her mind screamed desperately.
'Nothing.' He nodded slowly. 'Boy, you sure know how to make a man feel good about himself, don't you?' he said with an acidic cynicism that cut into her heart like a knife. 'But I don't think 'nothing' is quite true, is it, sweetheart?' There was cruelty in both his voice and his face now, cruelty and something else that turned the dark male skin white under its tan. 'We both know what happens when I touch you; Josie. You might not like it, and I sure as hell know you're fighting it, but nevertheless you want me. Why can't you be satisfied with that as a beginning and we'll see how it goes—?'
'You mean sex,' she cut in painfully, her heart breaking. 'You want me for sex, mating—call it what you will. But anyone would do for that, as long as they've got the physical requirements—'
'Don't! Don't you dare relegate it to that!'
She turned away quickly, frightened by the darkness in his face, but he caught her wrist before she could take more than one step, spinning her round with a violence that spoke of his anger more adequately than words.
'Can't you see—?' He stopped abruptly, biting back what he had been about to say and taking a deep, calming breath before he spoke again, his hold on her wrist iron-hard. 'I'm a thirty-five-year-old man, Josie, not some schoolboy wet behind the ears and governed purely by what's between his legs. Do you understand me?' She stiffened at the crudity but he shook her slightly, his eyes glittering. 'Do you understand me?' he ground out tightly.
'Yes.' She tried to jerk herself free but his grip didn't lessen. 'Yes, yes, yes! Now let me go—'
'I know you don't like me pointing out that you want me physically, but it's a fact. Now, whether you've got some sort of twisted loyalty to some bozo who's let you down, or whether you've convinced yourself the only way to get to the top of the career tree is to be alone, I don't know. What I do know is that you aren't happy and I could fix that. I could make you live again.'
'I am living.' She had ceased trying to struggle; he wasn't giving an inch.
'The hell you are.' He was breathing hard, his powerful chest rising and falling as he towered over her like an avenging angel, and despite the danger he represented she couldn't hide what his near-naked body was doing to hers; her body was ripening and responding to this man she loved. 'The hell you are…'
His mouth was both fierce and tender, and the combination was wickedly sensual, as he had intended it should be, sweeping her into another dimension of touch and taste and smell. He kept up the assault until she was aware of nothing but him, little moans of pleasure trembling on her lips as he explored her throat and breasts, the silk of the sarong pushed aside by his searching mouth.
He was bent right over her as he curved her softness into his hard frame, his hands moving in slow, lingering caresses that fed the fever which had taken hold of every part of her until she was one mass of burning, aching desire, without mind or reason. He was hugely aroused, the brief black trunks he wore accentuating rather than concealing his ardour, but despite her innocence the thrust of his body was thrilling—frighteningly, unbelievably thrilling.
'You want me…' It was a hoarse statement against the warm softness of her skin. 'Say it. Say you want me.'
She heard herself say the words with a feeling of disbelief, but they came from her heart, born of her love. 'I want you…'
When he put her from him she didn't understand, not at first, not until she opened dazed eyes to look into his face. 'That's living,' he said thickly, a muscle jumping in his hard, square jaw as he took a step back from her. 'That and much, much more. But I don't want just your body, Josie; I want all of you. And I won't take you until I know I've got it all. You understand me?' he added with magnificent arrogance, his face dark and proud.
She couldn't answer him; she could barely stand, let alone talk. She just
stared at him out of huge, bruised golden eyes and he swore softly under his breath when she didn't move or speak.
The walk back to the chateau through the beautiful grounds bathed in soft evening sunlight was conducted in a silence that was spiky and taut, and the only way Josie could cover the distance was by retreating into the stoical reserve she had developed over long, lonely years.
Was she wrong? She found she was doubting herself badly. Should she start a relationship with Luke? Do what her heart longed, craved to do, and let the future, whatever it might be, take care of itself?
He could have taken her then, down in the sheltered hideaway by the pool, with the blue sky above and the scent of summer all around. He knew it and she knew it. But he hadn't. He had stopped. Stopped after proving what they both knew—that she was his for the asking. So why, in the final analysis, hadn't he asked? Because he was interested in more than just a physical relationship? Her heart gave an enormous bound and lurched up into her throat. But that would make things worse, not better… wouldn't it?
'Ah, monsieur…' As they entered the massive hall Madame Marat had obviously just picked up the phone, and she held it out to Luke with a smile. 'It is Catherine, monsieur.'
'Thank you.' Whether he heard Josie's sudden intake of breath she didn't know, but he turned to her at the same moment that he grasped the telephone. 'She's phoning from England—you remember you met her?'
'Yes, I know who Catherine is.' She couldn't believe how calm and cool she sounded when she was dying inside.
'You do?' His eyes narrowed for a moment, but she kept her face quite expressionless with a will she'd never known she possessed. 'Oh, right.' Her calmness seemed to reassure him. 'Those wagging tongues again?' He didn't even seem concerned.
She had turned before he had even finished speaking, walking towards the stairs with careful measured steps on legs that threatened to let her down at any moment. He could kiss her like that, make love to her with such passion and tenderness, and then dismiss his girlfriend's calling with a casual phrase like 'those wagging tongues'? It was the answer to all her sudden doubts. His world could never be her world; it was as simple as that.
Dinner was an endurance test that she got through with gritted teeth and a good deal of precarious dignity, excusing herself immediately afterwards by pleading a headache, and escaping to her room, where she stayed for the rest of the evening. She half expected Luke to come and find her, and the tension of waiting, of both hoping and fearing that he would come, had made the headache a reality by the time she crawled into bed just after midnight, only to lie awake most of the night, tossing and turning in an agony of grief and anguish for the loss of something she had never had.
Breakfast was a cool affair, with Luke aloof and unapproachable behind his newspaper after a cursory good morning and a sharp, penetrating glance at her white face and shadowed eyes.
The journey to the airport, the flight to England, the car ride through London to her flat—all were conducted in the same distant, remote silence, broken only by the necessities of communication that such travel warranted.
When they drew up outside the house Luke gestured to his chauffeur, who had been waiting at the airport, to remain in the car, and carried her suitcase himself, despite her insistence that she could manage.
The tall, commanding tycoon in the designer-cut suit and hand-made shoes seemed very different from the angry lover of the day before, and now, in the cold light of England, Josie couldn't believe that this millionaire ten times over had ever said he wanted her. Even the weather had changed; a damp, muggy drizzle was lowering the temperature a good few degrees and creating a feeling of gloominess. And she felt gloomy, more than gloomy—
'Your key?' They were standing outside her flat, and she came to with a start to realise that she had been miles away and immersed in dark thoughts of her own.
'I've got it. Yes, here it is.' She waved her doorkey in front of his face and forced a bright smile. 'Thank you so much for allowing me to stay in your beautiful home—'
'Open the door.' He cut into her little speech of thanks she had been rehearsing throughout the tense, strained journey home without blinking.
'Oh, it's all right, I can manage now—'
'The flat has been vacant for a couple of days and I would prefer to check everything is in order before I leave,' he said flatly. 'That's all. I have no intention of leaping on you, if that's what you're worried about.'
'It isn't.' It was true. With sultry seductresses like Catherine around, charming temptresses who had no hangups, no secrets, no inhibitions about letting him know they thought he was the best thing since sliced bread, why would he persevere with a head case like her? she thought dismally.
'Good. Open the door.' He eyed her expressionlessly, his rugged dark face implacable and very, very remote.
The flat seemed tiny, minute, after the luxurious spaciousness of the chateau, but it was home, and as Josie glanced around her when she followed Luke through the door she had to bite back the tears that had been hovering behind her eyes since the fiasco of the evening before.
'Mog?' Normally the cat had an uncanny instinctive knowledge of when she would be home, and she couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been waiting to greet her, but now even her call got no response.
'Everything seems in order.' Luke was back at her side before she could call again. 'You'll get those invitations off within the next day or so, then? You have the list my secretary prepared?'
'Yes.' He was leaving, just like that, without another word? As though the fact that they had nearly become lovers last night meant nothing at all to him? But perhaps it didn't. She dredged up another bright smile that cost her more than he would ever know. 'I'll do them this afternoon.'
'Right.' He nodded slowly, his eyes watching her with an intensity she didn't understand. 'Goodbye, Josie.'
It sounded so final.
And then he walked out of the door, shutting it quietly behind him.
When Mog still hadn't returned by nine o'clock that night, thick panic began to replace the misery she felt over Luke. She ventured down to Mr Jones's flat at nine-thirty, and when he told her that he hadn't seen Mog for the last twenty-four hours she felt sick. She had found a saucer of untouched food on the kitchen floor which Mr Jones con-finned he had left there the night before, not bothering to replace it that morning because he had thought the cat had been out for a night on the tiles.
'Which I think he still is, love,' the caretaker said comfortingly as Josie stared at him with worried eyes. 'He can look after himself, that one; there's no flies on him. He's a toughie, all right.'
But he wasn't tough where cars were concerned, Josie thought, and her stomach began a dance all of its own. Against steel and metal, sharp claws and bared teeth were no defence. In spite of Mr Jones's very verbal warnings, which encompassed everything from white-slave trading to being mugged, she began a search of the immediate area, combing the nearby streets and gardens, but with no success.
It was dark when she arrived back at the flat, and her heart was in her mouth when she opened the door, but there was no welcoming miaow or running paws, just an empty silence which hit her hard in the chest. 'Mog…' She didn't switch the light on, just padded across to the window and looked out over the shadowed streets where high-rise buildings in the distance illuminated the night sky with tiny squares of glowing warmth. 'Where are you, Mog?'
He was more than just a cat. He was her family. She hugged herself tight round her waist as she swayed back and forwards in the darkness. He had a collar on, with a little tag giving his name and address, but people didn't bother about other human beings in the city, she thought painfully. Would anyone take the trouble even to contact her if he was hurt or—? She shut her eyes tightly. He wasn't dead. She wouldn't believe he was dead.
When the phone rang a moment later she nearly jumped out of her skin before running to answer it, hope leaping in her breast. 'Yes?' she said breathlessly into the
receiver.
'I've been ringing you since half past nine,' Luke said coldly, his voice harsh.
'Have you?' Her concern for Mog was such that it didn't even occur to her to take umbrage at the authoritative tone. 'I've been out.'
'Obviously,' he said with cutting coolness. 'Are you alone now?'
'Alone?' She found herself glancing round the flat before she pulled herself together. 'Yes—yes, I'm alone,' she said quickly. 'What's the matter?'
'My mother has produced a list of her own that needs incorporating with the original invitations,' Luke said tightly. 'I presume that will present no difficulty, or have you already sent the first batch out?'
'The first batch?' She thought she heard the catflap and jerked round, but it was only empty air that met her eyes. 'I… Sorry, what did you say?'
'Are you sure you haven't got anyone there?' he asked grimly. 'You seem… preoccupied. I wouldn't want to intrude—'
'Mog's missing.' She knew her voice was too shrill, and tried to bring it down a tone. He already had every justification for thinking she was neurotic; what on earth was she telling him this for? A cat would mean nothing to a man like him—
'How long has be been gone?' he asked softly, all harshness leaving his voice.
'I… I'm not sure.' She heard the sob in her voice with a feeling of despair, but she couldn't help it. If lie had been curt and uninterested she could have coped, but the sympathy in his voice was her undoing. 'Mr Jones was looking after him, as he usually does if I'm away, but Mog didn't have his food last night and he hasn't been back all day. He's never stayed out for more than a night before; he's not that sort of cat.'
'I'm sure he's not.' It wouldn't be until much later that she would remember the slight thread of amusement in his voice. 'Has anyone had a look round the neighbourhood?' There was the barest pause before his voice changed abruptly. 'That's where you've been, isn't it? Did Mr Jones accompany you?' he asked sharply.
'I— No. He's busy; he's got a friend staying the night and—'
