by Helen Brooks
She drank the glass of champagne Slade placed into her fingers straight down but the fear was still as hot and strong when she’d finished, and she was trembling deep inside.
‘You were thirsty,’ Slade said with lazy amusement.
‘Can I have another?’ she asked with brittle control.
He looked at her for a moment, the expression on his face changing. ‘Sure you can,’ he said levelly, ‘after you’ve eaten a plateful of food and danced some more.’
‘I…I’m not very hungry.’
‘Then I’ll have to feed you mouthful by mouthful, won’t I?’ There was an edge to his voice, like steel wrapped in raw silk. ‘Because you are not going to escape from the fact that you are with me with too much champagne, or going home early or anything else you might be thinking of right now. We are going to eat and dance and drink some more, and tonight, Daisy Summers, you are going to be my woman.’
She stood very still, her heart beating wildly, but he read what she was thinking in her eyes.
‘I only meant that statement in the widest sense,’ he qualified drily. ‘Don’t panic. Unless, of course…’ He let the invitation in the softly drawled words turn her cheeks a brighter pink before he laughed, adding, ‘You need some food down you, wench. End of conversation.’
But it wasn’t the end of the evening and it was an evening in which every little moment conspired together to make it magical. Too magical. Heartbreakingly magical.
The food was gorgeous, the champagne excellent, Slade’s friends bright and witty and on the whole as unpretentious as he was in spite of their Diors and diamonds, but all that remained on the perimeter of her awareness. It was Slade who filled the senses of touch and taste and smell; there wasn’t room for anything or anyone else.
It was gone three in the morning and Daisy was in his arms dancing, wrapped tightly against the hard, solid bulk of his body. It was a slow, dreamy number and her face was pressed against his shoulder, the warm male scent of him enveloping her in a sensuous glow that she had relaxed into utterly.
He had kissed her once or twice during the evening—nothing heavy, almost social kisses—and nuzzled into her neck and ears in a way that had made her knees weak. And that was without him really making love to her, she had thought more than once. Without him using any of the devastating sexual expertise that surrounded him like an aura. What would it be like to go to bed with a man like him, to have him pet her and excite her and do the things she saw waiting in the slumbering depths of those glittering black eyes?
An affair. She considered the words almost objectively, pressed into him so closely she could feel the solid thud-thud of his heartbeat. A man like him would have had lots of affairs, lots of experience. And he was a free agent now, as was she. He would probably think there was nothing stopping them engaging in a light-hearted fun-and-games romance for a few weeks or a few months, however long it lasted. She wished she could think like that. Right now, feeling every inch of him and liking it so much, she really did wish she could be the sort of woman he thought she was. But she wasn’t like that.
Ronald had been her first lover and then only because she had made the commitment of mind and soul as well as body. It wasn’t in her to have a casual liaison—it never had been—but especially not now, not after the miscarriage. She couldn’t really explain it, even to herself, but seeing her daughter’s perfect little face, holding that tiny body close and seeing the minute features and diminutive fingers and toes, she had come to know herself—fully and wholely—for the first time in her life.
It had been that knowledge which had told her Ronald was as dead to her as if he had actually died and that life as she knew it was over, and that she would probably never commit herself to another man as long as she lived. And nothing had changed. Not really.
‘Penny for them?’ There was a huskiness in Slade’s voice, and she became aware he was looking down into her face, his eyes tender and his handsome face smiling.
The feeling which flooded her was a peculiar sensation and she didn’t like it; it stirred her heart, made her yearn for things which were impossible. Something had been happening to her since she had met him and she had to kill it, stone-dead, before she got hurt. And tonight was as good a time as any.
‘They aren’t worth a penny,’ she said lightly, refusing the intimacy his voice had called for.
‘No?’ This time as he lowered his head and took her lips his mouth was hard and hungry and searching but the kiss only lasted a few moments before he raised his head, his voice thick, and said, ‘Let’s get out of here; it’s late.’
Daisy concentrated very hard on the social ritual of goodbyes and smiles and light banter over the next five minutes, but once they were outside in the softly shadowed street she knew she was frightened. Not of him but of herself.
‘It’s only half an hour’s stroll back to Festina Lente,’ Slade said easily as he slipped her hand through his arm, ‘and it’s such a beautiful night I thought it would be good to show you my town bathed in the moonlight. Yes?’
‘Yes, that’s fine by me. After all the food I’ve had forced down me in the last few hours I need some exercise,’ said Daisy, trying to sound casual even as nerves exploded at his touch.
And it was a beautiful night. The sky was black velvet, pierced with stars, in which the full moon sailed with queenly disregard for her subjects and the air was warm and scented with a hundred different perfumes from lush vegetation. It was a night for lovers, Daisy thought with a thread of hysteria which she checked instantly. And she suspected that was exactly what Slade was thinking. This was the seduction scene; all that had gone before was the softening-up process, if she wasn’t very much mistaken. He was very good at this; she had to give him that.
‘Are you afraid of me, Daisy?’
They had been walking slowly, arm in arm, away from the sight and sounds of the party, and the mellow shadows had enclosed them in a silent world which Slade’s faintly accented, dark voice fitted perfectly. She stiffened, not knowing how to reply.
‘Are you?’ he pressed again when she didn’t answer, stopping and turning her face gently to meet his ebony gaze.
She shook her head wordlessly, unable to formulate words for the denial past the lump in her throat. She wasn’t afraid of him but of something else, something which was undefinable even to herself but which was all tied up with the past and the nightmares which still intruded whether she was awake or asleep. There was something ominous and threatening and strangely elusive about the feeling but it was very real.
‘I don’t want to hurt you. Do you believe that?’ he asked softly.
Did she? Daisy looked into the hard, handsome face. It was so easy to say ‘I don’t want to hurt you’ and maybe he didn’t—he wasn’t a monster after all—but he would hurt her if she let him into her life and her body. She knew it without the shadow of a doubt. She shrugged carefully. ‘It isn’t relevant, is it, Slade?’ she said steadily. ‘I am Francesco’s nanny, that’s all.’
The flare of anger in his eyes accompanied a look which was very searching. ‘Perhaps I don’t want you to be just Francesco’s nanny?’ he said with careful evenness.
Daisy shrugged again as she turned and continued walking along the dimly lit street, and after a moment he fell into step beside her, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers now and his eyes straight ahead. ‘It was very bad, your marriage?’ he asked tonelessly.
‘The ending of it was very bad.’
There was a heavy silence for some time until Daisy felt it press in upon her with unbearable intensity. She stopped abruptly, turning to look at him with tortured eyes, and she saw the dark gaze was waiting for her. ‘I don’t want a relationship with anyone, Slade; I think it’s only fair to tell you that,’ she said in a rush. ‘I don’t want there to be any confusion.’
There was a significant pause before he said, ‘And friendship? What about friendship? Could you handle that?’
‘Could
you?’ It was very direct and her cheeks were fiery but she had nothing to lose.
His mouth smiled back at her, applauding her boldness, but there was restraint in his eyes instead of the previous warmth and she felt bereft at the loss. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said softly. ‘I can actually behave in quite a civilised fashion if I have to.’ His voice was dry. ‘It doesn’t always come easy—’ the dark eyes glittered at her but she knew although his tone was light the look in their black depths was anything but ‘—but patience has its own reward. Or so the old saying goes.’
She didn’t know how to take that and her face said so, causing his mouth to twist with genuine amusement as he continued, ‘So, friends it is?’
She nodded and he inclined his head in answer, taking her hand again and putting it through his arm. ‘So we will walk in the manner of two old friends,’ he drawled easily, drawing her into his side, which immediately started a reaction throughout her whole body. ‘And as a friend I will show you something of this beautiful country over the next few weeks. We will eat together and play together and have fun, yes? As friends.’
He was mocking her. She stared up into the dark face suspiciously but it was studiously straight. ‘Look, Slade…’
‘Yes, Daisy?’
His voice was innocent and relaxed and she could have kicked him. Or kissed him. Or both. ‘Oh, nothing.’ He was impossible. The whole set-up was impossible.
They continued to walk home through the gentle, soft darkness, his thigh brushing hers with every step they took and creating a warmth in her that was nothing to do with the balmy Italian night and everything to do with the dangerous alien force that was Slade Eastwood.
By the time they reached Festina Lente Daisy felt quite shattered, every nerve and sinew quivering and her body moist in its desire. Slade hadn’t said another word as he had strolled along beside her and that had increased, rather than diminished, the terrifying sexual awareness that had her legs feeling like melted jelly and little needles of pleasure stirring in all her secret places.
Slade opened the front door of the villa quietly and once they were in the shadowed hall he said softly, ‘Coffee?’
‘Oh, no—no, thank you.’ The words fell over themselves in her agitation. ‘I’m going straight to bed but don’t let me stop you from having one. Good…goodnight, Slade, and thank you for a lovely evening,’ she managed fairly coherently.
‘Goodnight, Daisy.’ As she made to turn for the stairs his hand caught hers and he turned her to face him, his voice very husky as he said, ‘A comradely kiss? As one friend to another?’ But it wasn’t really a suggestion as his mouth had taken hers before she had a chance to reply.
The kiss was warm and sweet but not even the most charitable of recipients could have called it chaste, and at that moment Daisy was not at her most altruistic. There was too much at stake—like her peace of mind, her emotional stability, her very sanity. She jerked away quickly and he didn’t try to stop her, his eyes dark and his big body lean and still as he looked into her flushed face and said softly, ‘Sweet dreams, little English flower.’
Little English flower her foot! By the time Daisy had reached her room the confusion and heady rush of sensation that had exploded in her at the touch of his lips had died down, and righteous indignation mixed with fear had taken their place.
She had told him how things had to be. He needn’t think he could sweet-talk her the way he did the rest of his women, she growled to herself as she pulled off her clothes and prepared a hot bubbly bath. That was the trouble with men like him who had everything—they couldn’t believe there was a woman on the planet who didn’t want them. As that last kiss had proved.
She knew it was unfair—at the bottom of her she knew it—but to acknowledge it would mean opening up a door that she had slammed shut for good. And she wouldn’t do that for any man. Not even Slade Eastwood. Or perhaps especially not Slade Eastwood.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AMAZINGLY, miraculously, the next day, and then the ones after that, and the following few weeks, went by without Slade putting a foot wrong. He was the perfect—well, yes—friend, Daisy had to admit reluctantly. And their time together—the excursions out in the surrounding countryside and mountains with Francesco, parties and barbecues with Slade’s enormous circle of friends, cosy evenings at home and wonderful visits to a whole host of expensive restaurants, not to mention theatres and cinemas and art galleries—went by without him once attempting more than a brief platonic kiss on the cheek.
She ought to be thanking her lucky stars everything had worked out so well, Daisy told herself on the last Thursday in June—Francesco’s birthday—when she awoke early, long before the rest of the house were due to rise, and sat at the window of her bedroom watching a blazing Italian sun rise in a cloudless blue sky. And she was, she really was, except…
Oh! She twisted in the big basket seat of the cane chair and shook her head at her own inconsistency. The friendly, undemanding stance Slade had taken up had left her feeling…strange. She wouldn’t allow herself to put the word miserable to it. His attraction to her had obviously been a light, easy-to-deal-with emotion which hadn’t caused him a shred of difficulty to overcome. And all the attention from the beautiful, wealthy and richly endowed females who hovered about him given half a chance must have helped.
Daisy twisted savagely in the chair again and then stood up abruptly, irritated with the path her thoughts were taking.
Angelica left tomorrow and then she would take over sole responsibility for the care of Francesco. She stared out into the sun-washed grounds beyond the window without really seeing them. A few weeks ago, when Slade had first come home, she had been quite sure she wasn’t going to be able to stay, but since then, with Slade behaving as he had and her rapport with Francesco having grown daily, she had changed her mind.
So why, when things had settled down so well and everything was panning out, did she feel so darn confused and unsettled all the time? she asked herself wearily. Oh, she was stupid, she really was, and she had to conquer this ridiculous see-saw of emotion that took her up to the heights and down to the depths a hundred times every day. And it wasn’t all to do with losing Jenny; she had to be honest with herself over that.
The faint panicky feeling which had underlined all her days and nights for the last month stirred more strongly, and in the same instant she noticed a monochrome of black and white amid the brilliant colours of the garden. Slade was dressed in a white shirt and black jeans and he was moving stealthily around the side of the house instead of entering by the front door, his arms full with a large cardboard box.
Of course, the kitten! She continued to watch the tall, lean figure as her mind travelled on. She knew he had arranged to collect it early this morning from Mario’s sister so Francesco could have the morning with his new pet before the party, and the small boy still didn’t know for sure if his fervent entreaties and ardent prayers had been answered.
Just as Slade was about to disappear from view towards the small side door which led into the kitchens she saw him pause suddenly, as though listening to a sound from inside the box, and then twist the box round under one arm as he put a comforting hand in to the small occupant. He spent some moments bent over the box, obviously talking to the kitten and fussing the tiny creature, and then he straightened again and entered the house.
Why, after all the days and weeks they had spent together and the times they had shared—both with Francesco and just the two of them alone—it should be that one small, unimportant incident that opened her understanding she didn’t know, but suddenly the knowledge was there, hot and inescapable as it burnt into her horrified brain. She loved him. Him, Slade Eastwood.
She wanted to be close to him, to sense the warmth of him and smell the fresh clean scent of him every morning of her life when she opened her eyes. She wanted to belong to him, to share every part of his life; she wanted—
No! The shake of her head was wild. No, no, she didn’t. This w
as just physical and, yes, mental attraction, that was all. He was a terribly attractive man with a wickedly sharp intellect and sense of humour, besides being powerful and wealthy to boot. She was bound to be drawn to him—any woman would be—but it didn’t mean she loved him. She didn’t want to love anybody, no one, not ever again. Love meant living on a knife-edge, becoming vulnerable, losing control. She couldn’t, she just couldn’t ever willingly walk into that again.
No, she didn’t love Slade Eastwood, and of course he didn’t love her either; in fact she doubted if he was even attracted to her any more. Which was good because it would enable her to stay here and take care of Francesco, she told herself feverishly, which was the important thing. And Slade was leaving at the beginning of next week after his month’s sabbatical at home, and then he would be back to his normal jet-setting with the odd couple of days snatched at Festina Lente every other week or so. She could handle that.
By the time Daisy was ready to go down to breakfast at eight o’clock she was every inch the composed, capable nanny—all cucumber-cool efficiency and brightness. Slade had requested she eat breakfast with himself and Francesco on the occasions he was home, and after collecting Francesco from his rooms next door as usual—the small boy was beside himself with excitement, especially regarding his party later that afternoon—they went downstairs to the breakfast room where Francesco’s cards and gifts were piled high next to his plate and Slade was waiting, his dark eyes tender as he took in his son’s exuberant face.
‘Papà! These are all mine?’ Francesco was truly delighted with the stack of gaily wrapped parcels, and then, as he caught sight of the Jeep at the side of the table, he let out a squeal of excitement.
