Stormy Possession

by Helen Bianchin

  'There is not an inch of your body my lips have not explored,' he drawled, deliberately catching hold of her hands as he eased the gown over her shoulders and let it fall to the carpet. 'It is a little too late to display reticence.'

  'You're hateful!' she cried angrily as he slipped the clip on her bra and tossed it aside.

  'You married a man, mia sposa,' he taunted softy, 'not an ineffectual mouse who would beg for his wife's favours.'

  'An insensitive, uncaring—brute!' Sally accused, struggling fiercely to free her hands from behind her back. Not that it did much good, for her puny strength was no match against his.

  'Who takes what he wants, hmm? And I do want you, piccina. To taste the honey-sweetness of you, and to feel you quivering in my arms.'

  'I don't want you!' she assured vehemently, becoming breathless from exertion. 'That knowledge should be bittersweet.'

  'Ah, Sally,' he mocked, 'only moments ago you responded involuntarily. Admit it, if you dare.'

  'You're a loathsome, arrogant—devil!' she thrust angrily. 'I have bruises everywhere from last night, and I ache all over.'

  With slow deliberate movements he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, transferring his grip on her hands as he tossed the shirt to the floor.

  'I was very careful not to bruise you,' he said quietly. With his free hand he indicated a circle of teeth marks on one sinewy shoulder. 'Except in direct retaliation to this.'

  Sally's eyes widened measurably, and she felt utterly shocked as she saw the large darkening bruise surrounding several sharply-defined marks.

  'Your fingernails are sharp, like miniature daggers,' Luke continued in a significant drawl, his eyes openly sardonic. 'You also beat a mean fist. If a count of battle-scars were taken, piccina, mine would undoubtedly outnumber yours,'

  'You hurt me,' she cried, unwillingly provoked, and saw his wry smile.

  'Since you had never known a man, a certain— wounding was inevitable. I can promise that tonight will be different.'

  Sally swallowed convulsively, and tried to ignore the way her stomach curled at his words. 'I'd rather be left done. I—I have a headache,' she invented wildly.

  'That is both unoriginal and untrue,' he answered softy, pulling her irresistibly forward until she was moulded against the hard length of him. His lips sought hers, incredibly gentle as with undoubted mastery he began urging alive the hidden fire deep within,

  A tiny moan of entreaty escaped as she resisted the desire to melt beneath his touch, and she fought desperately against the aching need for fulfilment as his caresses aroused sensations she hadn't known existed. It was like drowning slowly in a blissful pool of warmth, making her utterly mindless and incapable of coherent thought.

  It wasn't until later as she lay in his sleeping arms that the resentment began to flare. She hated him— but even more, she hated her traitorous body for responding with a will all of its own.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THEIR remaining three days on New Zealand soil were expended touring steadily northward, taking in the Bay of Islands and Russell, the city of Whangarei, followed by a leisurely drive down to Auckland on Monday evening.

  The days Sally enjoyed—the nights, however, were something else. No matter how stiff an exterior she presented, Luke was able to dispense with any resistance, and the knowledge irked her unreasonably.

  Tuesday morning Luke kept his word by indulging her in a shopping spree, and after frequenting two of the downtown duty-free shops for souvenirs, they explored several arcades before entering a large department store.

  'That is very chic,' Luke observed, indicating a mannequin adorned in a red gown of filmy organza with an elegant handkerchief skirt. The bodice was quite plain, fitting firmly over the bosom, with a single shoestring strap crossing over each shoulder. 'You must try it on.'

  Sally turned and smiled. 'Are you serious? It may not be my size.'

  He took her arm and led her towards a hovering saleswoman, directing with considerable charm that the gown be removed. Not content, he murmured that he wished something in blue be brought for their approval. And when Sally caught sight of a blouson- styled shirtwaister dress in soft floral chiffon, he indicated that as well.

  'Luke,' she couldn't help protesting, 'I have plenty of clothes. Besides, there's not room for anything else in my suitcase.'

  'Then we shall buy another,' he responded tolerantly. 'Go into the changing room, Sally, and you will come out and let me see each dress as you try it on.'

  The temptation to give a short curtsy was too much to resist, and she caught the amusement in those dark eyes as she turned and disappeared from sight.

  They all fitted her perfectly, but if she had to select one, it would be the red gown. The colour seemed to highlight her hair and add a glow to her skin.

  'We will take all three,' Luke instructed, and Sally hid a smile at the saleswoman's obvious delight, and for her benefit Sally stood dutifully on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with her lips.

  'Thank you, darling.'

  Afterwards they had lunch in the bistro bar of a nearby hotel, then drove to the motel in Parnell where they deposited their parcels before emerging to walk the short distance to Parnell Village.

  The converted old houses were picturesque, remodelled into shops and boutiques, and Sally fell in love with the atmosphere the Village projected. Cobblestone bricks with moss between the cracks and spaces formed walkways between the shops, and there were several that sported multi-paned bay windows in which the wares were displayed.

  'Oh, how beautiful!' Sally couldn't help the soft exclamation as she saw a delicate cobwebby handcrafted shawl in the tiny bay window of a shop down a narrow lane. The hours that must have gone into its making were surely numerous, and she had a mental picture of a tiny white-haired old lady sitting in a rocking-chair with her head bent over wool and crochet hook as she worked.

  'Ah, yes,' Luke murmured close beside her. 'It is exquisite, is it not? It will go well with the red gown.'

  'You intend buying it?' she queried incredulously, and he smiled.

  'You object?'

  'No—it's just that I didn't admire it with the intention of—'

  'Shall we go into the shop?' he suggested musingly. 'This lane is very narrow, and there are others wishing to pass.'

  For a further hour they wandered in and out of the many shops in the Village, and Sally added a few purchases of her own—mementoes, and a gift for her father. Then it was time to go back to the motel to complete their packing, for they had to leave for the airport at four-thirty.

  The early evening flight deposited them in Sydney shortly before eight o'clock, and after an uncomplicated inspection by Customs, they emerged into the reception lounge to be greeted by Carlo, and—surprise—Joe Ballinger, both smiling expansively.

  'Daddy!' Sally flew into her father's outstretched arms with an enthusiasm that caused him to pat her shoulder with slight concern.

  'Heavens,' child,' he chided laughingly, 'anyone would think you'd been gone for four months, instead of four days!'

  She drew back self-consciously, then managed an over-bright smile. 'You're all the family I have.'

  'Am I forgotten so quickly?' Luke mocked gently, and she shook her head.

  'You're not in the same category as my father.'

  'I should hope not, cara.'

  At the sound of her husband's drawling response, she turned and projected him a sweet smile. 'Darling Luke, you're one of a kind.'

  Luke inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, although his eyes were peculiarly lacking in humour.

  Carlo took charge of the suitcases, implying that he would stow them in the boot, then bring the car round to the main entrance.

  'You'll come back with us for a drink, won't you?' Sally appealed of her father, uncaring whether Luke would approve the invitation. Anything to delay being alone with him in that huge mansion in Vaucluse—for, once there, she would be made indisputably aware that
she was little more than an acquisition with a particular purpose in mind. Hostess, cook-cum-housekeeper on occasion, but foremost was that of human breeding- machine! Children she liked, and she found babies adorable. Any prior thought she might have given to her own had always evolved from a loving relationship, and far removed from the cold, calculating manner Luke had chosen.

  'Sally—no,' Joe refused without any regret, adding gently, 'It's your first night home. In a few days, perhaps.' He smiled at her obvious disappointment. 'I'm giving a dinner party at the end of next week. You'll both come, of course?'

  'Thank you, Joe,' Luke answered smoothly, and taking Sally by the arm he began leading the way through the mingling crowd. 'We will let you know. I may be out of town.'

  Sally cast him a startled glance, and caught his faint smile.

  'I have a business to run, cara—remember?'

  Joe gave a hearty laugh, and winked at his daughter. 'The honeymoon is over!'

  How I wish it had never begun, Sally declared silently.

  The Alfa-Romeo with Carlo at the wheel was visible through the glass doors, and in a matter of minutes Luke handed her into the rear seat, then slid in beside her. Joe became an increasingly distant waving figure as Carlo set the car in motion.

  In less than half an hour they would be home— Luke's home, never hers, Sally mused broodingly. Why, she hadn't seen any of it, except the kitchen, dining-room and lounge. Quite what the ground floor comprised she could only surmise, although it seemed logical to conclude that the bedrooms were situated on the third and upper floor. The thought of being able to explore gave her a sense of pleasure.

  'Tired?'

  Sally cast the man at her side a slightly startled look. 'Not really. I was thinking.'

  'Pleasant thoughts, I hope?'

  Conscious of Carlo within hearing distance, she tempered her reply with seeming affection. 'It will be nice to get home and unpack everything.' She even managed a light laugh. 'I hope you've plenty of spare wardrobe space, darling.'

  For an answer Luke caught one of her hands and lifted it to his lips, holding it effortlessly while he kissed each fingertip in turn, and his eyes remained fixed on hers, openly sardonic, daring her to utter anything by way of remonstrance. It was a relief when the car swept up into the Vaucluse end of New South Head Road, slowing to a halt in the wide sweeping driveway a few minutes later.

  Carlo preceded them, carrying the luggage, and once inside Luke paused, sweeping an arm to the right.

  'Aside from a few service rooms, there is only garage space on this level. To the left are Carlo's living quarters.' He led the way towards the wide staircase leading up to the first floor. 'Both the lounge and the formal dining-room you have already seen, but oppo-site and adjacent to the kitchen is a smaller dining- room, as well as another lounge, or salotto, where you will find a television set, stereo, several bookcases filled with books. And in seclusion on this side of the stairs is my study.'

  The uppermost floor was an area hitherto unseen, and Sally expressed surprise over the number of bed- rooms—five in all, the largest being the master bedroom with en suite facilities, as well as two separate bathrooms further down the hall.

  However, it was the main bedroom that held her attention. The colours blended delightfully, from the deep cream and beige shaggy carpet to the wild-rice coloured floor-to-ceiling drapes, the dark satin- mahogany furniture that was essentially continental in design, and the dark chocolate-brown velvet bedspread. The walls were sculpture-plastered in cream, and the swirling design was effective.

  'I am sure you will find plenty of space for your clothes,' Luke drawled a trifle dryly. 'If you discover the necessity to rearrange any of my clothing, please tell me—I do not relish playing "hunt the thimble" for my underwear.'

  'If I do, I'll draw you a diagram,' Sally responded hollowly, her thoughts running riot over the number of women who might have shared that opulent bed.

  'The answer is none,' he assured her blandly, and she gave him a look of disbelief. 'At least, not in that bed,' he elaborated with a decidedly wicked smile.

  'Do you read minds?' she queried icily—an effect totally destroyed by the brilliant colour burning her cheeks.

  'Yours is particularly transparent, piccina,' he illuminated quizzically, and leaning out a hand he touched the warmth, then trailed his fingers down to begin a subtle disturbing caress along the sensitive cord of her neck. 'I have to acquaint myself with de-velopments over the past few days—via a sheaf of data despatched from my office, and a tape. Carlo will make some coffee if you should want it, and I will have mine in the study. Do you mind?'

  Sally met his gaze unblinkingly. 'Would it matter if I did?'

  His smile broadened and became faintly mocking. 'I could be persuaded to leave it until morning. An hour before breakfast would be ample.'

  'Far be it for me to keep you from your work. Besides,' she determined firmly, 'I want to unpack. I may even watch television for a while.'

  A tigerish chuckle left his throat, then he leant down and, bestowed a swift hard kiss on her unsuspecting lips before turning and leaving the room.

  Alone, Sally followed her voiced intentions by unpacking, and after a leisurely shower she put on a robe and went downstairs to the salotto. There, didn't seem to be anything outstanding on any of the television channels, so she crossed to the stereo equipment and selected three LP's. She was beginning to feel rather sleepy, but nothing could persuade her to go upstairs and slip between the covers of that large bed. Instead, she curled up on the settee with a cushion beneath her head, listening to the soothing strains of Rod Stewart's gravelly rendition of 'Sailing' float softly across the room. Her mind wandered a little as her father's image came to mind, and such thought brought a vivid reminder of her present predicament. If only she'd been born ugly... A tiny voice whispered tauntingly that if that were so, her father would now be facing bankruptcy, stripped of all his possessions, his pride dragging the dust. It was a chilling thought.

  With something akin to resentment, she raised herself on one elbow and plumped the cushion with unnecessary force, then swept her hair aside and settled down again. Perhaps if she closed her eyes for a few minutes...

  When she awoke, it was daylight, and she was in bed —alone. A somewhat rumpled pillow and tossed covers on the opposite side indicated that Luke had lain beside her during the night. She didn't need to speculate that it was he who had carried her from the salotto and deposited her between the sheets. A glance at her wristwatch revealed that it was late—after nine, in fact. Hurriedly she swept the covers aside and gathered together some clothes.

  She emerged into the kitchen some ten minutes later, feeling refreshed and longing for some coffee.

  'Buon giorno, sìgnora.' Carlo looked up from his task of frying eggs and gave Sally a polite smile.

  'Good morning. I'm afraid I slept in.' She moved across the room to stand a few feet from the stove. 'Can I do anything to help?'

  'Grazie—but no. Luke has already left for the city,' he informed her. 'He left instructions that you were not to be disturbed. As soon as I heard movements upstairs, I began cooking your breakfast.'

  'You shouldn't have bothered,' Sally assured him kindly. 'I could easily have made it,' At the other's slightly scandalised expression, she had to suppress a smile. Quite obviously that had been the wrong thing to say!

  Carlo dished eggs, bacon, and grilled tomatoes on to a plate, took toast from beneath the griller, and carried them to the table. Then he poured coffee, and indicated the neatly-folded daily newspaper. 'After the signora has eaten, may I suggest that any clothes for washing, or for the dry-cleaners, be put out? I will attend to them.'

  Oh heavens, he surely wasn't going to keep on referring to her as 'the signora', was he? Aloud, she ventured tentatively, 'Couldn't you call me Sally?'

  'If it pleases you.'

  Sally subsided into a chair and sugared her coffee. It smelt delicious, and so did the contents of her plate. 'Ha
ve you worked for my husband for very long?' she queried idly.

  'Five years as his employee, but I have known him many years.' He paused in thoughtful reflection. 'Some fourteen years ago we cut came together in North Queensland, and a few years later we met again in Weipa where we worked for the same construction company. Six years ago I had to slow down a bit—the doctor said the heat, the dust, too much hard work is not good for my health. So I came south to Sydney. Luke and I met by chance, and—he shrugged expansively, 'we talked, shared a few drinks. He offered me this position with him, and I took it. He is a good man,' he concluded with the utmost sincerity.

  Sally was silent as she digested this information. 'Do you have anyone to help in the house?' she ventured at last.

  'Si—twice a week a woman comes to help with the cleaning, and to do the ironing. Otherwise, I manage the rest.'

  'Perhaps I could relieve you of some of the work— especially with regard to the meals.'

  Carlo smiled. 'It is your kitchen, Sally,' he reminded her politely. 'Luke left the message that you will be dining out tonight, and requests you be ready to leave at seven—he expects to be home at approximately six o'clock.'

  So she was to be thrust in at the deep end, socially, she perceived. Well, pleasant conversational patter was something in which she was well versed, thanks to her father. Although the thought of meeting Luke's friends, especially women friends, was slightly daunting.

  Sally spent the rest of the morning exploring the spacious three-level mansion, and found pleasure in its design and furnishings. After a light lunch of salad and cheese, she telephoned her father only to find that he was out of the office. She'd wanted to speak to him, not for any specific reason other than to hear his voice, and to suggest he might like to meet her for lunch the following day.

  Her collection of evening gowns was adequate, but one in particular was quite startling. Of creamy-white fine wool crêpe, it hugged her breasts, divided and curved round her neck, leaving the hack bare to her waist. The skirt fell in soft folds to her ankles, and with it she wore a long silk-fringed stole wound round her neck with the ends flowing down her back. The complete outfit was demurely simple—an effect totally destroyed by removal of the stole.