by Andrea Barry
African Enchantment
By
Andrea Barry
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
"It's Obvious You're Nothing More than a Playboy!"
She hissed, moving her head sideways, away from his cheek, knowing that she couldn't very well leave even if she wanted to. She was trapped. "How many women have you seduced lately?" Patricia turned to stare at him icily.
Armand's lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. "I had no idea you were interested in my exploits. How flattering that you should ask. Let me see… do you want just a round number of specific details?"
He pressed her to him gently, steering her expertly around the dance floor. The heat of Armand's body penetrated hers as they danced, filling Patricia with a pleasurable sensation that was so overwhelming it banished all other feelings and thoughts…
ANDREA BARRY is a professional artist and writer. She travels extensively, writing about the exotic places she visits and illustrating her own articles.
Dear Reader,
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who have written in with your comments on Silhouette Romances.
We are always delighted to receive your letters, telling us what you like best about Silhouette, our authors, or indeed, anything else you want to tell us. This is a tremendous help to us as we strive to publish the best contemporary romances possible.
All the romances from Silhouette Books are for you, so enjoy this book and the many stories to come. I hope you will continue to share your thoughts with us and invite you to write to me at this address:
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Copyright© 1982 by Andrea Barry
Map by Ray Lundgren
First printing 1983
ISBN 0 340 33980 2
Chapter One
The sliding glass doors shut noiselessly behind Patricia, reflecting her trim form as she walked in long, graceful strides down the thickly carpeted bank corridor leading to the office of Sean Lowery, Vice-President of the Universal Bank International Department.
Patricia shook off a feeling of uneasiness and thought instead about the much stamped cablegram folded in her handbag—the reason for her visit to the bank.
FROM LADY PATRICIA MALBOROUGH,
KEEKOROTI ESTATES,
NAIROBI, KENYA
read the top line.
DEAR CHILD [the message stated],
I HOPE YOU WILL LET ME HAVE THE PLEASURE OF MEETING YOU AT LONG LAST; SINCE I AM NOT IN THE BEST OF HEALTH, I WISH YOU TO VISIT ME AT MY HOME. FUNDS FOR YOUR JOURNEY TO AFRICA AND YOUR EXPENSES HAVE BEEN PROVIDED. PLEASE CONTACT MR. SEAN LOWERY AT THE UNIVERSAL BANK FOR FURTHER DETAILS. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE.
YOUR LOVING AUNT PATRICIA (Pat)
The telegram had been a bolt out of the blue. Patricia had never met her aunt. The only knowledge she had of her was through the few times her father had mentioned her.
"A headstrong girl, your aunt Pat," he would say. "She was barely sixteen years old when she ran off with a no-good Englishman against the family's wishes. Went to live in the wilds of Africa."
"Why was I named after her, Papa?" Patricia would ask. Until the time of his recent death her father never said more than: "Well, you were born on the same day she was, you know —Valentine's Day." He would then give Patricia a hug and add: "She wasn't a bad sort really, your aunt Pat. And she was a very pretty girl, like you are. You have her red hair, and your eyes are just like hers too, sparkling and green."
Good looks and the crowning glory of her bright hair were not Patricia's only assets. At twenty-six she had already achieved success in her field as a dance therapist. An accomplished ballet dancer at one time, Patricia found that her love for children was stronger than her enjoyment of performance, so she had combined both. Her hard work was bringing her richly deserved recognition and she had recently been appointed head of a children's rehabilitation program at the Dance Therapy Institute.
No, she declared to herself, as she already had several times in the past few days, she wasn't about to traipse across half the world at this time in her life, to visit a relative she had never even met. Her work was far more important.
As she entered the wood-paneled office of Sean Lowery, Patricia knew she was going to tell the banker that a trip to Africa—or anyplace else for that matter—was out of the question. Her calling on him was merely a courtesy.
The distinguished gray-haired man rose to shake her hand and graciously motioned her to sit down. Patricia lowered herself into the plush burgundy upholstery of a tall wing chair. She rested her slender arms over her knees. Controlled and poised, reflecting her training as a dancer, she held her head raised but relaxed.
Her bright auburn hair was arranged in a chignon on top of her head, held with a few invisible hairpins and tied with a narrow green velvet ribbon. A similar ribbon was laced through the quilted stand-up collar of her taupe silk blouse, peeking out from under an off-white angora vest. Her mid-calf-length skirt was of pleated houndstooth wool, patterned in greens and beiges.
The banker remained silent for a moment, looking at the steady green eyes set in a heart-shaped face. He was immediately struck by the girl's glowing peaches-and-cream complexion with a few stray freckles edging her high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose. A full mouth, barely touched by lipstick, curved into an easy smile.
"It's a pleasure to see you, Miss Wells," Sean Lowery said, seating himself behind his carved mahogany desk. "I'm pleased you responded so quickly to your aunt's telegram. As you can see from her message, she isn't well, so it is imperative that you leave for Africa as soon as possible. Lady Malborough is a woman who doesn't like to be kept waiting," he added as an afterthought, but quite earnestly. "Now then, how soon can you be ready?"
Patricia crossed her long, slender legs—a movement which didn't escape the banker's practiced eye. Her ankle boots of tan and black snakeskin accentuated her shapely calves.
"I don't know… I really don't know," Patricia said. "I teach at the Dance Therapy Institute. My specialty is working with handicapped children." She leaned forward and continued with intensity. "I've just been put in charge of a rehabilitation project. I don't know what would happen to my classes… to the children who rely on me."
A friendly smile appeared on the banker's face. "Ah, it is precisely your work and your devotion to it that has made Lady Malborough— your aunt Pat—so interested in you. I'm not at liberty to tell you much more, but I am not only your aunt's banker, I was also a close friend of her husband. We went to school together. After his death I became not only a business adviser, but a devoted friend to the great lady your aunt is."
Patricia listened attentively, as the banker paused, carefully considering his next statement. "It wasn't your aunt's choice to have no communications with the rest of the family. Your father must have surely told you that. When she ran away from home at sixteen to marry an adventure-loving Englishman—who later was to become Sir Harry Malborough—she was in fact abandoned by her family. It gave her great pleasure to find out years later that you were named after her. She has followed the course of your life rather closely, in spite of your family's firm stand on not communicating with her."
He hesitated as he tugged at his short moustache. "She knows of your work at the Dance Therapy Institute. She's very proud of you, you know."
Patr
icia stared in disbelief. "She intended to give you more time to get to know her," Sean Lowery continued. "It was her plan to meet you in New York—on your own ground, so to speak. However, her sudden illness made it impossible to travel at this time. I feel it is my duty to point out to you that the doctors suspect your aunt might not live much longer… I'm sure you will take this into consideration." He paused hopefully.
Patricia remained silent. "Why don't you give it some careful thought over the weekend?" the banker pressed on. "Talk over the possibility of a vacation with your superiors at the Institute."
"I will," Patricia said earnestly. "I'll be in touch with you as soon as I find out something definite," she said, rising.
In her heart Patricia knew she wanted to be with her aunt. Her parents had been killed in an automobile accident several years ago, leaving her without any family. To find out now that there was a relative who needed her, had cared about her, was a wonderful revelation. She would do her best to arrange the trip.
Patricia walked pensively through the revolving bank door leading to Park Avenue. The late January sky had turned dark, and menacing clouds were opening into a cold drizzle. The doorman was busy helping an elderly lady get into her limousine. Patricia scanned the wet street for a taxi, but they were all occupied.
Perhaps I can dash across the street to the subway station, she thought. Jumping to miss a puddle, the heel of her boot caught in a grating and broke, causing her to stumble into the street. With a deafening screech of tires, a large sleek white car came to a miraculous halt inches away from her.
The driver of the car jumped out and ran to her, his strong, steady hand gripping her elbow-in support as he towered over her. Patricia's heart beat wildly as her hair, loosened by her near fall, cascaded with abandon down to her shoulders. She found herself, involuntarily, leaning against the stranger's muscular chest.
"You could have been killed, beautiful." The man's voice was low and caressing. "Really, you should look where you're going—or rather, running," he continued in a tone tinged with humor. "I should hate to see anyone so lovely lost to this world."
There was a wild, disturbing aura about him. His curly hair was so black that it shone blue. Tousled by the January wind, it was out of tune with the impeccable hand-tailored double-breasted suit he wore under an open cashmere overcoat.
"Come, let me drive you to where you're going." His strong fingers moved deftly around Patricia's waist, steering her toward the white, leather-upholstered Rolls-Royce.
"Let go of me this instant!" Patricia's voice was raised in warning. "You practically ran me over! Let me go, or I'll call the police!" she cried. She reached for the small golden whistle she always carried on a Venetian chain around her neck. Lifting her head, her eyes met those of the stranger. Two light blue magnets, their black pupils like burning coals, ignited her whole body with a strange inner fire that spread to her very toes. Her body wouldn't obey her. Her hand refused to bring the gold whistle to her lips. Rooted to the ground, she stood motionless, hypnotized by the most beautiful violet-blue eyes she had ever seen.
He gave a short laugh, his mesmeric eyes, shaded by lashes that any woman would envy, still holding Patricia's gaze. Dropping his hand to his side in a gallant gesture, he freed Patricia's limp arm.
"As you wish, beautiful tigresse." There was a soupçon of a foreign accent in his husky voice. His face was so close, Patricia could smell the fragrance of an expensive, musky aftershave lotion. "But you are being foolish," he persisted. "It's raining and you're getting soaked. Besides, there are no empty taxis in sight. I would be happy to drive you to your destination."
His tone had changed to sincere concern. "I don't see how you can get home. Your boot is ruined. Believe me, I'm only trying to help a lady in distress."
"And kill her in the process!" Patricia murmured under her breath, still unable to avert her eyes from his burning gaze. She was unaware of the rain or cold—conscious only of the man's overpowering presence and its disquieting effects on her body. "Leave me alone," she repeated lamely.
She knew instinctively this was a man convinced of his superiority, aware of his magnetism—a man ready to pounce on an unsuspecting female. He was the kind a sensible girl should stay away from. And yet there was no fear in Patricia, only a liquid excitement she couldn't control. She stood transfixed by the beauty of his eyes.
He tossed his black curly hair, his thick arched eyebrows etched against a high forehead, the nostrils of his aristocratic nose flaring out involuntarily.
"Tell me, beautiful, are you afraid of men?" A quiver of amusement appeared on his full, well-defined lips. "You needn't be afraid of me. I assure you my only wish is to see you safely to your home. By the way, my name is—"
"I don't want to know your name," Patricia cut in, relieved to feel her senses returning.
The less I know about him the better. What arrogance! Calling me foolish. Insinuating I am afraid of men. What gives him the right? she thought. She was grateful to have escaped from what seemed like a spell, an uncomfortable enchantment his eyes had put her under.
Still shivering with a strange, unwelcome excitement, she pivoted as gracefully as she could on the one good heel of her boot, turning her back to the handsome stranger. "You are being childish, you know." His words were loud and clear above the traffic. "Have it your way. But I hope we shall meet again under more auspicious circumstances."
"Not if I can help it," Patricia muttered under her breath, limping her way across the street on her broken heel.
Patricia squashed the urge to look back in his direction. The nerve of him. Practically running me over and then calling me childish! I'll bet he's laughing at me this very moment, she thought with a twinge. I hope I never see him again. An involuntary shiver ran through her again, but it wasn't from the cold or the rain. The feel of his fingers lingered—the sensation of assurance in the way he had touched her, handled her body as if he owned it. She felt disturbed and at the same time she burned everywhere his fingers had been. A sensation she found not altogether unpleasant.
Patricia tried to erase thoughts of the wildly disturbing stranger she had just met as she sank gratefully into the back seat of the cab that had mercifully appeared just before she had turned to the subway steps. She gave the driver her address on East Fifty-first Street, where she shared a cozy apartment with her roommate Annie. The two girls had met in third grade and had been best friends ever since. Annie was like the sister Patricia never had. They were devoted to each other, but their life goals were very different. Patricia felt that Annie was less demanding of life and of herself. She taught kindergarten in a neighborhood school, and although she liked her job, she considered it a temporary occupation. Her wish was to get married and raise her own children and she was about to get that wish. She and her law-student fiancé, Bert, were to be wed this summer, as soon as he passed his Bar exams. Then Annie would settle into a housewifely existence.
"I'm very happy for you," Patricia had said to Annie when Bert had proposed almost a year ago now. "It's great news."
"Well, Patricia, I hope you're next." Annie immediately wished for her friend.
But Patricia, as happy as she was for her roommate, did not find herself wishing the same thing for herself. Some years ago she had thought seriously of marriage. She was a ballet student then, and madly in love with one of her instructors. He'd asked her to marry him, and she had been in heaven—until he had abruptly changed his mind and ended up marrying another girl. Patricia had been heartbroken. She vowed this would never happen again.
"My career is what matters most in my life," Patricia would insist. "I love being a dance therapist. To be able to help handicapped children with my skills gives me the most wonderful feeling in the world."
"But Patricia, you could be such a wonderful mother, caring for your own children," Annie always pressed her.
"I might adopt a child at some future date as a single parent," Patricia would counter.
These very thoughts ran about her head as she tried to relax in the back of the cab that was making slow progress in lunchtime traffic. She was glad Annie would be home. Annie's teaching job was just around the corner from the apartment, so it was possible for her to come home at noon whenever she wanted to.
The rain stopped suddenly, just before the cab pulled up in front of the three-story brownstone house. Patricia paid the driver and hobbled to the door on her one good heel. Inserting her key in the downstairs lock, she pushed the bell button three times, a signal the roommates had to let each other know one of them was on the way up.
Deciding that it would be easier to walk in her stocking feet, Patricia pulled off her boots and ascended the two carpeted flights of stairs leading to their cozy apartment that overlooked a backyard garden.
Annie was at the door, all excited. "My goodness," she exclaimed. "You're soaked to the skin. Did you walk all the way from the bank?"
Patricia had momentarily forgotten standing in the rain, arguing with the handsome, arrogant stranger. "You'll be soaked to the skin," he had said. Yet Patricia was still very glad she hadn't given in to his offer to be driven home in his Rolls-Royce. Heaven only knows what might have befallen her had she acquiesced to the wishes of that magnetic man. The very thought of his burning blue eyes renewed a feverish feeling in her. She decided to put him out of her mind right there and then—not even mention the whole disquieting encounter to Annie.
"I had a hard time getting a cab," she answered, not untruthfully. "And I broke the heel on my boot."
"Those heels are awfully thin, aren't they? I hope you didn't fall down."
"No," Patricia said, remembering the grip of the stranger's arm under her elbow. She realized she might very well have fallen without his help.
