by Penny Jordan
Back in her room she slicked lip gloss over her lips, and brushed her hair. Mrs Jennings, her mother’s ‘daily’, did not come at weekends, and by the time she had cleaned away her breakfast things and tidied up it was nearly lunchtime.
She was just debating about whether to bother with a meal when the front door bell pealed. When she opened it, Jago was standing there. Dark cords hugged his lean hips and long, muscular legs, a soft shirt open at the neck to reveal the tanned warmth of his chest, a leather jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder as his eyes slid appreciatively over the soft curves beneath her sweater, and the slender length of her legs in their damson cords.
‘Hello.’ It was an effort to drag her eyes away from him, and she veiled them quickly with her lashes, hoping she hadn’t betrayed the hunger he aroused in her. His Ferrari was parked in the drive and she wondered why he had called.
‘Not going to invite me in?’ he asked softly.
A crazy nervousness was spiralling up inside her, her mouth dry as her pulses pounded out their urgent message. As Jago walked past her, his eyes lingered on her mouth, and the sensual scrutiny increased her inner tension.
‘I was just going to have lunch.’
‘Then I’m just in time,’ he said smoothly, the comment betraying her into lifting surprised eyes to his face.
‘You’re having lunch with me,’ he told her, as though she had no say in the matter. ‘A birthday treat.’ His mouth twisted sardonically before she could refuse. ‘Call it a form of recompense for depriving you of Winters’ company. Had it not been for me no doubt you would have spent the day with him.’ His eyes dropped to her hand, his fingers grasping it, running lightly along the knuckles, his expression unfathomable. ‘Who knows, perhaps he might even have given you a ring.’
Something in his satirical expression caused a shaft of pain so intense that she almost gasped out loud, snatching her fingers away.
’I don’t think so,’ she replied in a low voice. ‘David never loved me, I know that now…’
‘And I’m the cruel bastard who forced the knowledge on you, is that it? Get your coat, Storm. I’ve booked us a table for one.’
‘Without asking me?’ Storm demanded. He was treating her like a Dutch uncle and she wasn’t sure if she liked it. The intense excitement she had experienced when she saw him standing outside the door had given way to increased depression, a vague aching in her temples warning her of a latent headache.
‘Without asking you,’ Jago agreed urbanely. ‘But you’re coming with me if I have to bundle you into the car myself. And don’t bother telling me that no company is preferable to mine—your expression when you opened the door was very illuminating,’ he concluded dryly.
She was glad of the excuse of fetching her coat, for it meant that she could turn away from him to hide her confusion. She had a very good idea of how she had looked when she opened the door, and if he hadn’t guessed how she felt about him by now, he was not the man she thought.
He had booked a table for them at a well-known and extremely exclusive country club several miles away, and Storm sat silently at his side as the powerful car responded to his touch.
Several days’ frost had turned the earth to iron, a pale lemon sun struggling through the layers of dove grey cloud. The air was very still, the countryside held fast in the grip of an early winter.
What was he thinking? Storm wondered, darting a look at her companion. His profile told her nothing, his lean hands controlling the car, with much the same ease that they controlled her, she thought unhappily, and yet she knew that she ached to feel them upon her again, and that if he were to stop the car now and turn to her, she would be powerless to deny him whatever he wanted. And even that was an understatement. There was nothing passive about the way she felt about him. He changed gear, the movement tautening the muscles of his thighs, and she longed to reach out and touch him. Heated colour burned along her cheekbones and she dragged her eyes away, forcing herself to focus on the scenery outside the car instead of the man within.
The country club was a low Cotswold stone building set in gardens which in summer were a blaze of colour. They were shown to a table in a window alcove, the head waiter flourishing a menu the moment they were sitting down.
Storm was sure she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, but a delicious fresh Florida cocktail restored her appetite for the duck which the head water had recommended, and the wine which Jago had chosen helped her tensed muscles to relax. In point of fact, she felt amost lightheaded. During their first course she had drunk her wine quite quickly, trying to dispel her nervousness, and the waiter had insisted on topping up her glass, so that she had consumed far more than she usually drank.
Jago refused a sweet in favour of cheese and biscuits, and Storm allowed herself to be persuaded into a rich chocolate and whipped cream confection, which she pushed round her plate, unable to lift her eyes from Jago’s hands as he cut a wedge of cheese.
A cup of coffee helped to reduce the cottonwoolly feeling which had engulfed her, but she made no demur when Jago slid his arm along her shoulders as they left the club.
Outside the clouds had obliterated the sun, and it was cold, the afternoon, already fading to an early dusk. Storm shivered, despite her fur jacket, and Jago pulled her against him, her senses immediately taking fire from the brief contact.
‘I’ll come and collect you tonight,’ he told her as he opened the car door. ‘About eight?’
‘I can walk,’ Storm demurred, but he shook his head, sliding into his own seat and switching on the engine.
‘It’s too far.’
‘Will Tony and Valeria be there?’
He nodded. ‘Mm. Tony was quite taken with you, but I’ve told him you’re all mine.’ He laughed softly when he saw her expression. ‘As far as employment goes, of course. You’re contracted to Wyechester, and I don’t intend to let him entice you away with promises of fame and fortune in television.’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of female loyalty, do you?’ Storm asked him. ‘I heard you lecture once, and you were very scathing about women in the media.’
She felt him turn to look at her, and could not meet his narrowed scrutiny.
‘Is that what all the defiance was about? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. It was plain from the moment I walked into the studios that you had it in for me. I thought it was purely on account of Winters…’
‘I didn’t like your attitude towards women in radio,’ Storm admitted, ‘Nor the implication that they were merely using it as a stepping stone to television. We aren’t all blinded by the glamour of the small screen. Personally I find radio work far less restricting, with much greater scope…’
‘I was generalising,’ Jago told her. ‘And in general terms my comments still hold good. Lots of girls do join local radio stations with their eyes on television channels.’
‘Will there be many people from City Radio there tonight?’ Storm asked curiously. So far Jago seemed to be keeping the two sides of his life in completely separate compartments, and she wondered if this was by design.
‘One or two,’ he replied unhelpfully, as he turned off the main road and down a narrow country lane which Storm knew led to his own house.
’I want to go straight home,’ she protested.
Jago laughed. ‘Relax, I don’t intend to exact payment for your lunch, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘Who are you fighting, Storm, me—or yourself?’
Before she could answer they had come to rest in front of the house. Storm had never been inside it before, and glanced around her with interest.
‘Does it have your approval?’ Jago mocked. They were standing in a large square hallway with a polished wooden floor, rising up one side to an overhanging balcony. The room had an air of space and light and the decor was cool and simple.
Jago pushed open a door and Storm stepped inside a huge lounge furnished with two large settees covered in off-wh
ite fabric, her feet sinking into a deep pile carpet in a soft shade of green. Green and cream curtains with a hint of peach hung against the windows, and deep rust-coloured lamps echoed the colour scheme. It was very luxurious and no doubt very expensive, and just the sort of room she would have expected in such a modern house.
‘It was decorated like this when I bought it,’ Jago told her indifferently, motioning her to one of the settees. ‘It suits me for the moment.’
In view of his lack of interest in the decor Storm wondered why he had bought such a large house, when he would have had an apartment in Wyechester itself, which would surely have been more convenient. She stole a look at his face, wondering if the house represented some subconscious childhood urge for a family home. The subject was too personal for her to broach and instead she studied one of the modern abstracts hanging on the wall, wondering what the rest of the house was like.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Jago asked her abruptly. She shook her head. She had a feeling that she had already had too much. That wine with her lunch had been a mistake.
‘Stay here a minute,’ he told her, disappearing and leaving her alone. Why had he brought her here? To exact the admission he had told her she would eventually give?
She didn’t hear him come back; the thick carpet muffled his footsteps, and when his fingers grasped her chin, she started nervously, her tongue wetting her upper lip, a startled gasp escaping her as Jago’s hands slid into her hair, tilting her head back, his own tongue stroking her lips with a sensual expertise that had her shuddering achingly against him, as his mouth closed on hers.
After what seemed like aeons later she came back to earth, too bemused to care what he might read in her unguarded expression as her eyes reflected her reaction to his lovemaking.
‘Happy birthday,’ he murmured softly, against her lips. ‘Now turn round.’
Obediently she did as she was bid, and a startled cry broke from her lips as she saw the small pile of presents on the coffee table. Too surprised to disguise her pleasure, she exclaimed shakily, ‘For me?’
‘Your parents didn’t want you to think they’d forgotten you.’
There were half a dozen prettily wrapped parcels. Storm opened the two smallest first, gasping with delight when she saw the delicate gold chain and matching bracelet that her parents had bought for her.
‘Here, let me,’ Jago offered as she struggled with the clasp. The touch of his fingers on her skin sent shivers running down her spine and when they lingered for a second she held her breath, her bones melting to water as the memory of the delight they could evoke.
‘It’s fastened now,’ he told her coolly, giving her a little push. ‘Open the rest.’
There was a beautiful silk scarf from Andrea and a letter which she put aside until later, and a small square parcel from John which contained her favourite Chanel perfume.
‘He knows how much I like it,’ she explained, puzzled by the expression on Jago’s face as she picked up the last box, a large square package, tied with pretty pink and silver ribbons and wrapped in pink and grey paper.
When she had removed the wrappings she stared in amazement, searching for a card to say who the gift was from. An elegant white box held her favourite Chanel toiletries, and she exclaimed delightedly when she saw a large bottle of bath oil, wondering who could have bought her such an expensive present.
‘There isn’t a card,’ Jago drawled urbanely above her. ‘I thought you’d be able to guess the sentiments expressed easily enough.’
Storm stared up at him. ‘You mean this is from you?’ She could hardly believe it. ‘But…’
‘I noticed you were wearing it the other night,’ Jago cut across her protests, ‘and I thought you would find it more acceptable than something more intimate.’
More intimate! Her senses reeled. Tonight she would attend his party, her body, whose contours he already knew intimately, softened and perfumed with his gift.
‘You shouldn’t have…’ she began in a husky whisper, standing up unsteadily.
‘But I did, and now you can thank me,’ Jago murmured silkily, taking her in his arms.
His mouth was warm and firm and she made no demur when his hands slid under her sweater caressing her spine before curving upwards to cup her breasts. When he released her she was breathing jerkily and he held her away from him for a few seconds, studying her unprotected face.
‘Now try and tell me that you don’t want me,’ he said evenly, jerking her to her feet.
She couldn’t, of course, and she gathered up her presents in numb misery.
For a moment in his arms she had forgotten that all this was just a game and allowed herself to believe.… What? That he might eventually come to care for her?
She sat in silence as he drove her home, wishing she could find some excuse to miss the party. Her heart had started to ache in earnest, a legacy of the wine at lunchtime and her see-sawing emotions, she suspected.
As he helped her out of the car Jago bent over her, his eyes hard.
‘Don’t start searching for excuses not to come tonight Storm,’ he warned. ‘You’re coming if I have to drag you screaming all the way!’
Under the words Storm read a meaning of a different kind, an implicit reminder of his intentions, and she trembled with the knowledge that should he choose to assert his power over her, there was little she would be able to do to deny him.
CHAPTER NINE
SHE had never dreamed that her mother would entrust her birthday presents to Jago, Storm reflected as she prepared for the party. In fact she wished that she had not done so. There was little doubt in her mind that this was why he had bought her something himself, but the lavishness of the gift dismayed her. She had told herself she wouldn’t use it, but the temptation had proved too great and the fragrance of the bath oil hung on the air, enveloping her in a sensual perfumed cloud.
She was wearing her new dress, and added a touch of blusher to her cheekbones to hide the pallor of her skin. Jago arrived just as she was adding her lip gloss, and she tried to stem the weakness rising in her as his eyes slid over her body with blatant meaning.
‘Sexy and yet subtly virginal,’ he pronounced when the inspection was over, adding obliquely, ‘It suits you.’
Her perfume filled the interior of the car, and Storm stiffened, half expecting him to make some comment. Jago himself was wearing hip-hugging dark pants, a silky white shirt open at the neck under his sheepskin jacket. As they drove under the street lights Storm saw the faint beading of moisture at his throat, her breathing suddenly restricted, her hands clenched at her side to prevent her from leaning across and touching his clean, damp skin with her lips.
It was madness to feel like this, she warned herself, but she could do nothing to stop her pulses racing when he helped her out of the car. Almost day by day her aching need of him increased. The touch of his hand, initially no more than an intimacy to be avoided, now burned and tormented, inciting her flesh to demand more.
The first people Storm recognised as she entered the crowded living room were Tony and Valeria, obviously very much at home among a crowd whom Storm did not recognise but guessed must be friends of Jago’s from London. As Jago took her jacket, a tall blonde girl detached herself from the throng swaying seductively across the room to pout provocatively at Jago as she placed plum-tipped fingers on his arm.
‘Jago darling,’ she murmured breathlessly, ‘where have you been? I’ve missed you. I want to hear all about this darling little station you’ve bought. Come and talk to me.’
Her eyes rested disparagingly on Storm’s set face, before she curved her body against Jago’s arm, neatly excluding Storm from the conversation. On any other occasion she would have been amused by the other girl’s manoeuvres, but where Jago was concerned, she acknowledged unhappily, she was too emotionally involved to feel anything but intense, searing jealousy.
‘Madeleine, I know she’s only small, but there’s no need to crush Storm u
nderfoot,’ Jago drawled dryly, forcing the blonde to acknowledge her presence.
No doubt he was quite used to these confrontations between his female companions, Storm thought bitterly, and probably even derived a certain wry amusement from them.
Madeleine acknowledged her with a voice that dripped condescension, her eyes dismissing Storm as an unworthy opponent as she immediately launched into a conversation featuring mutual friends in London whose names meant nothing to Storm, apart from the fact that she had occasionally come across them in the gossip columns. In the opposite corner of the room she could see Pete chatting to Tony, and excusing herself, she went over to join them, glad to escape from Madeleine’s chilling glances.
’Jago’s got a great place here,’ Pete commented enviously when Storm joined them, and she could see from his expression that he was thinking of the day when he would be successful enough to own something as luxurious.
‘It is lovely,’ Valeria agreed, smiling warmly at Storm. ‘A lot of our friends were surprised when he gave up his London service flat to move down here, but I wasn’t.’
She said it so confidently that Storm looked enquiringly at her. Jago was still talking to Madeleine, his dark head bent over her blonde one. The pose was familiar to Storm from gossip column glossies, and jealousy ate into her.
‘Don’t be fooled by the sophisticated exterior,’ Valeria warned her. ‘Other people have dismissed Jago as nothing more than an elegant playboy—to their cost. What he is today he achieved single-handed, and you don’t do that without collecting a few scars on the way. Jago was an orphan, you know,’ she told Storm, who was a little surprised that as a friend of Jago’s of such long standing, Valeria should speak to her in this vein, but an explanation was soon forthcoming. Tony and Pete were deep in a discussion on the rival merits of local and national radio, and Valeria drew Storm a little to one side.
‘Look, perhaps I’m sticking my nose in where it isn’t wanted,’ she began without preamble, wrinkling the item in question with a rueful air. ‘Tony’s always telling me that I act before I think, but on this occasion intuition tells me that I’m right. It’s pretty obvious you aren’t just one of Jago’s decorative idiots. Oh, you’re pretty all right,’ she added hastily.
