The Gift

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘Not really.’ She dared to look up at him. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, dark grey and glinting with a strange disquieting light. Shaken, she returned her attention to the man in the photo – the rather glamorous Signor Guidetti. ‘But I do believe that’s our esteemed host, the hotel manager.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  For several seconds, they stared at the image in silence, then, as one, they scanned the room, looking for the hotel’s suave, slightly flashy Italian proprietor.

  ‘So, why isn’t he your type?’

  Put on the spot, Sandy frowned. What business was it of his? Yet still the ghost from her past resurfaced.

  ‘He’s too groomed. Too slick. Too perfect.’

  Unlike you.

  She suppressed a flinch. Up close, her tough-looking man was tougher than ever. Tall, he towered above her, his shoulders broad and his lean yet muscular limbs strong looking beneath a rather beautiful lightweight suit in midnight grey. His buzz-cut hair was dark and looked velvety against his fine nobly shaped skull. He had the look of a Roman emperor, civilised yet savage.

  But it was his face most of all that made her swallow. She was both intrigued by it and also faintly frightened. His features were even, sculpted and masculine, and just as imperial as his cropped hair. But the network of fine white and pink scars that traced the planes of his high cheekbones, his mouth and jawline, framed by his crisp dark beard, spoke eloquently of pain and suffering.

  ‘Unlike me.’

  The fierce damaged face softened in a smile as he echoed her thoughts, and Sandy almost gasped. Once again, a fleeting sense of memory almost rocked her.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with looking as if you’ve lived a bit,’ she countered, regaining her wits. For all his scars, the tall man had charisma. And his strong body was affecting her, making hers quicken irrationally. Was he scarred all over? Were the clean hard lines of his limbs marked and battered? It suddenly seemed important to find out.

  ‘Well, that’s good to know.’ His low laugh was as rough as his speaking voice, but Sandy felt it reach out and touch her like a phantom hand. Hormonal reactions fired throughout her body and she experienced a tingling all over her skin, as if her awareness of him was creating a subtle field. She’d been warm before, but now she was burning up.

  ‘Care for another drink?’

  Her companion nodded at her glass, which Sandy suddenly saw was empty. She couldn’t remember drinking the wine, but obviously she’d been nervously swigging away without realising it. Another drink would slip down well, and soothe her parched throat, even if it was a tepid and uninspiring vintage.

  ‘Yeah, great! I’d love one, thanks.’

  She held out the empty and, as the tall mysterious man took it from her, their fingers briefly touched. Electricity seemed to arc between them, ramping up the tingling sensation. She suppressed a gasp as his dark eyes widened. He’d felt it too.

  ‘Be right back. Don’t go away.’

  The urge to defy him, and run like the wind, welled up in her, and if her shoes hadn’t been so bloody ridiculous she might have succumbed to it. Something about his broad dark-clad back as he walked away from her was deeply unsettling. Threatening. Everything about him made her senses leap and prickle and, if she was going to cope with that, she needed some air first. If he was sufficiently interested, he’d follow her outside, wouldn’t he?

  It was a while since she’d experienced spontaneous desire like this, and to feel it for a scarred and troubling stranger was just as unsettling as he was. But she couldn’t ignore it or shut it off, hey presto. It was there, palpable nagging lust, low in her groin like a heavy and not entirely uncomfortable weight.

  I should go. I should really get out of here.

  Where was Kat? They’d shared a taxi here. She’d have to tell her friend she was leaving.

  She’s probably getting it on somewhere with Greg.

  A sudden, sharp image of herself getting it on only heightened the spiralling sexual mayhem. She swayed as images rushed in again, but not the usual fairly soft-focus ones of her mysterious rescuing prince from years ago, or the occasional movie star or actor. No, this time the scarred and bearded stranger who’d just left her was centre stage. And he was touching her in a way that no imagined or remembered lover ever had. Doing things her cook had described getting up to with her sexually adventurous boyfriend, who worked here at the Waverley part-time.

  Swiftly, she moved away from the photo of Signor Guidetti and walked purposefully in the direction of the exit to the hotel’s reception area. Her feet screamed blue murder but she ignored the gathering pain.

  ‘Leaving so soon?’ enquired a voice in her ear as she attempted to sidestep a chattering knot of guests that barred her way.

  Her mystery man of scars was holding out a glass to her. The wine in it was effervescing, and an exquisite pale gold. She had a feeling it wasn’t from the general vat of industrial Chardonnay that everyone else was slurping. It looked as if the stranger had brought her a glass of Champagne.

  ‘Thanks.’ She took it from him, careful to avoid touching his fingers this time. She didn’t want to spill a fine vintage all over him. ‘And no, I wasn’t leaving. I just thought I’d slide outside and get some air.’

  It’s December, Sandy. He’ll think you’re nuts!

  Grey eyes like brushed steel narrowed infinitesimally, as if he didn’t believe her story, and their controlling expression compelled her to turn back towards the centre of the room.

  ‘And you were confident I’d follow and find you then?’ He clinked his glass to hers, and then took a sip of his wine. ‘Mm … that’s better. Drink up!’

  Sandy sipped, and then sighed spontaneously. Oh, what a pleasure! The Champagne was superb, dry and crisp yet almost buttery, the very essence of French glamour in a glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said again, with much more fervour, ‘this is delicious. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You can thank me properly by telling me your name.’

  The steely eyes challenged her. Sandy felt her stomach flip. If names were exchanged, the game was on in earnest. She couldn’t just walk away, because it wasn’t just a casual but disquieting moment any more.

  ‘I’m Alexandra Jackson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She shuffled the strap of her bag on her shoulder, swapped hands with her glass, and then held out her right one to him. He swapped his glass to his other hand far more smoothly than she’d managed to, then offered a large tanned right hand that seemed to dwarf her slender paler one. There were even crooked white scars across the backs of his knuckles.

  ‘I’m Jay Bentley. And the pleasure is all mine.’ There was a wealth of meaning in the low gravelly words, and Sandy stifled a gasp as, between her legs, her sex fluttered.

  ‘Er … is that a capital “J” or like the bird?’ she burbled, saying the first thing that came into her head to cover her confusion.

  ‘Jay’ laughed, his sharp eyes narrowing. ‘Either. Or both. I’ve never thought about it. You choose.’

  Surely you know your own name?

  ‘Like the bird then.’

  ‘“Jay” it is then, Alexandra.’ Reaching forward, he finally took her hand.

  His skin was warm and smooth and dry, and Sandy was instantly aware that her own palm was sticky with nervous perspiration. She tried to snatch it back, but Jay held on, staring directly into her eyes as if engaging her in a contest.

  ‘It’s “Sandy” … my friends call me “Sandy”.’

  ‘So I’m your friend then, am I, Sandy?’ He tilted his closely cropped head on one side, still holding her hand, still pouring a stream of electricity into her body that found its way unerringly to her groin. ‘I had a feeling that you didn’t really like me all that much.’

  Blood burned in Sandy’s face. He was right in a way. She’d found him intimidating, worrying. She still did. And much more so now.

  ‘I … Well, I don’t really know you yet.’ She almost threw the glo
rious Champagne down her throat, insulting its magnificent quality.

  ‘And yet you want me as a friend?’

  Again that raw sexy laugh that seemed to play across tender sensitive areas. The man was starting to goad her, provoke her. Did she like him? She still wasn’t sure. Especially as there was the possibility he was stalking her.

  But you want him, Sandy, don’t you? Boy, how you want him.

  ‘You know what I mean. Don’t be perverse!’

  His grin looked almost boyish all of a sudden, and lights danced in those North Sea-grey eyes.

  ‘Me, perverse?’ He took a long swallow of wine, his strong throat undulating against the open collar of his dark shirt, then paused, licking a droplet off his lips. ‘Well, not in that way.’ He finished his drink in another deep swallow. ‘I’m a plain and simple man, Sandy. I just see what I want and go after it.’

  ‘Like me?’

  What on earth was she thinking? What had she said? It could be pure coincidence he was here. But then again, what was a perfect stranger who she’d first set eyes on this afternoon doing at a Chamber of Commerce Christmas party? She’d lay odds on the fact that he’d gate-crashed and, if he had, was it specifically to meet her?

  His laugh pealed out, a rough sexy sound that drew the attention of folk nearby, mostly the women. The way they looked at him suggested that his scars and his fierce appearance didn’t reduce his attractiveness one bit. In fact, their hungry glances told Sandy that the way he looked made him infinitely more desirable, rather like a glamorous pirate or some other ruthless sexy scoundrel.

  ‘You’re very direct. But then, so am I. As a rule.’ Long, dark and splendidly thick eyelashes flickered down for an instant.

  ‘I’m staying here at the hotel for a few days. Would you like to come up and see my room, Sandy Jackson?’

  ‘No.’ Yes! ‘Of course not.’

  She cursed a blue streak inside, feeling her face colour with a furious revealing blush. Hell, she didn’t know this man from Adam but suddenly she did want to go up to his room with him. It was insane, it was dangerous and it was downright sluttish, but there was something about his strange, scarred but still handsome face, and his large powerful body that spoke directly to her own body, making it want him.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t know you. I’m not sure I even like you. And I certainly don’t sleep with perfect strangers just minutes after I’ve met them.’

  Jay shifted his weight between his feet, his eyes on her. She didn’t know how he was doing it but she couldn’t seem to move a muscle.

  Her eyes moved though. She couldn’t stop skittering all up and down him, noting his white taunting smile, his uncompromising haircut and the long muscular lines of his limbs beneath his good suit.

  She also noted, with a thud of her heart, that he was starting to get the makings of an erection.

  Looking up again, her face crimson, she found his eyes upon her. Dropping her gaze again, she focused on her glass, twirling its pointless emptiness in her fingers.

  ‘More Champagne?’

  He was laughing at her, the beast, laughing his arrogant sex maniac’s head off.

  ‘No … no thank you. I think I’ll get some air now. It’s been nice meeting you, Jay. I’ll see you around. Presumably …’

  Still clutching her glass, she spun and darted for the door, cursing the stupid shoes that meant she couldn’t walk as fast as she wanted to. A second later, Jay was at her side. ‘Good idea. That air you mentioned … It’s too warm in here. I’ll join you.’ Reaching out confidently, he plucked the empty Champagne glass out of her fingers, and deposited it and his own on a passing waiter’s tray. ‘Let’s go that way.’ With his hand beneath her elbow, he began to guide her towards a set of patio doors that led out to the Waverley’s gardens.

  Disorientated, and fighting both Jay and her shoes, Sandy stumbled, only to be caught around the waist and held upright, almost off her feet, as if she weighed nothing. A piercing sense of déjà vu swept through her, and she teetered dangerously. Not pausing to give her time to protest, Jay gathered her up in his arms and began to carry her towards the doors to the garden.

  ‘Get off! Let me down! It’s just my shoes!’ she hissed in his ear, but his grip only tightened and his smile became infuriatingly arch and he-man.

  ‘All the more reason for me to carry you. Don’t make a fuss, woman.’

  Sandy’s brain sent messages to her hands and arms to beat at Jay and to her body to wriggle in order to get loose. Her little evening bag swung on its chain from her shoulder as he walked and she felt like catching hold of it and using it to batter him around the head with. Yet somehow the nerve impulses got sidetracked, swept away by the raw power not only of him but of a deep persistent memory.

  Transported across time, she relaxed, became pliant and curled her arms around his neck. She was suddenly living in the world of fifteen years ago, being rescued and carried to safety by her perfect knight. A beautiful Prince Charming figure, barely out of his teens, a scruffy backpacker, large and wonderful in his strength and kindness, with the face of an angel and long dark hair that tumbled to his shoulders. She even seemed to smell again his distinctive odour of male sweat and some musky incense-like cologne.

  The expressions of astonishment and interest all around her seemed to come through a thick filter. The cocktail party was a million miles away, apart from one grinning wag who stepped forward to open the door for them. All that really existed was the warm haven of protective arms, keeping her safe and comforting her after trauma.

  The crisp winter air of the Waverley’s formal gardens rudely awakened her though, reminding her that she was a grown woman. She hadn’t just been mugged, and this was most definitely not the romantic Bohemian prince of her dreams whose large hand was curved evocatively around her thigh. Instead, it was a rude and overconfident man who might well have an unhealthy fixation on her. And one who’d just seen fit to make a complete exhibition of her in front of many of Kissley’s worthies and quite a few of her friends and acquaintances!

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? I was going to get my wrap first,’ she lied. ‘It’s the middle of winter and I’m wearing a strappy dress!’

  Wriggling like fury achieved nothing, and she was about to escalate to thumping and punching when Jay stopped in front of a bench in a deep, hedged alcove, and set her gently down on it. Shrugging off his jacket, he swirled it around her shoulders, and then, sinking to his knees on the turf, he pulled off first one of her offending shoes, then the other.

  ‘Your feet were hurting and I carried you,’ he said, giving her a look as if she were an airhead. ‘God knows why you women wear these stupid things.’ He tossed the borrowed slingbacks away with obvious male disdain.

  ‘If you must know, they’re not mine and I was persuaded to wear them because they look good with this dress.’ It should have come out assertively, but the sweet relief of being out of the horrible shoes was warping her mind. All she could do was lean back on the bench, wiggling her liberated toes and trying to get her bearings.

  ‘Hobnail boots would look good with that dress as long as you’re wearing it.’

  Sandy’s eyes had closed in bliss because her toes were hurting less, but now they snapped open.

  Perfect knight-type compliments too?

  She opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of a single appropriately gracious remark. Jay’s eyes were glinting with a strange, vaguely confused intensity. He wanted her, that was obvious, but there was more than desire there. Something indefinable and enigmatic and possibly not even connected to sex at all.

  ‘Let me give you a foot massage.’

  His rough voice was soft and low and, before she could answer, he took her right foot in both his hands, cradling it as if it were fashioned out of porcelain. Then he began to massage, delicately and yet with assertion, and what had been bliss became sublime, almost breathtaking pleasure. The sensation of his cool hands o
n her skin was like having an orgasm right there in her foot, and unable to stop herself she made a noise that told him so.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Oh God, yes.’

  What the hell am I doing?

  She tried to wrest her toes from his grip, but he held on firmly. The pressure of his hands was unyielding without hurting her abused foot.

  ‘Hush … hush … Why are you struggling? You like this, don’t you?’

  His fingers began to move again, pressing, circling, releasing tension and unwinding knots.

  What is this? Reflexology?

  Never one for alternative therapies, Sandy suddenly found herself an instant convert. His sensitive kneading of her metatarsals was having effects in most unexpected places.

  Her sex. It was as if he was touching her sex. Stroking. Pressing. Fondling. Exploring. The impending orgasm was no longer confined to her foot.

  ‘No,’ she murmured, closing her eyes again, her face flaming. She tried to struggle again, but it was half-hearted, merely token.

  ‘Yes,’ he asserted, fingers still moving and circling.

  Sandy slid down in the seat, her thighs parting. It was like being hypnotised by touch, mesmerised by sensation. All her negative reactions to him were dissipating like mist in the moonlight, leaving only a woman’s yearning for his strength and his mystery.

  He was intent on her foot, studying it closely as he worked. Sandy felt drugged and dreamy, her body loose now, and fluid. Her sex was soft, open and ready, and she could feel silky arousal drench the crotch of her panties.

  It’s a fantasy … just a fantasy … It’s not real.

  And it seemed that way as she shifted her hips on the bench, bunching her dress beneath her as Jay continued to caress her foot. Drenched in euphoria, she stared down at him, loving the dark fuzz of his hair as it clung to his scalp, and the focused expression on his austere face. There seemed to be nothing sexual in his expression, but in her gut she knew he knew precisely what he was doing. The foot massage was a deliberate assault, a careful strategy for seduction.

  And God, was it ever working. Her pussy felt wide and pouched. Surely he could smell her arousal? He was close to it, and her dress was thin and silky, and her knickers even less substantial.