Something in the pejorative way he said ‘concocting a romance’ needled Rosanna. ‘That’s fine, then,’ she said tightly. ‘No harm done.’
‘Right.’ Ewen rose to his feet. ‘If you could spare some photographs of the period to go with Harry’s letters, and the rest of the stuff, I’d be grateful. I’ll take copies and return them, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Rosanna, feeling suddenly depressed. ‘Take what you want.’
He sifted through them again, chose half a dozen, then looked at a more modern photograph of Rose on the beach with her child. ‘The family likeness is very marked. That’s how you’ll look in a few years’ time.’
‘Follow me,’ said Rosanna abruptly, and led him across the hall to another sitting room where several silver-framed photographs were grouped together on a small table. One was her parents’ wedding picture, two others were of herself and Sam in their degree robes and mortar boards. The fourth was a formal portrait of a lady with dark eyes still brilliant under her white hair, the smile familiar from Harry Manners’ treasured portrait of Rose.
‘Taken the year before she died,’ said Rosanna huskily.
‘And still beautiful.’ Ewen gazed at the photograph for a long time, then turned away. ‘Thank you for letting me see her.’
‘It needn’t make any difference to your novel,’ she assured him as she saw him to the door. ‘You’re bound to score a big success again. Mine will be nothing like that, even if I manage to get it written, much less published. No one will ever connect yours with mine.’
Ewen shrugged. ‘I doubt if we’ll trespass on each other’s preserves. If I do,’ he added deliberately, ‘you can sue me.’
‘As if I would!’ she said scornfully. ‘Just one more thing. The portrait of Rose.’
‘Sorry. I’m keeping that. You’ll have to make do with Harry.’
Rosanna looked up at him in entreaty. ‘But we don’t have one like that, Ewen. Couldn’t you take a copy of it with the others and let me have the original back?’
He looked down at her in silence for a moment. ‘I’ll compromise. You can have the copy. I’ll keep the original. Unless,’ he added, with a tigerish, explicit smile, ‘you have some kind of persuasion in mind?’
Heat rose in Rosanna’s face and she backed away. ‘You’re angry with me,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Why?’
His smile was unsettling as he followed her step for step as she retreated. ‘Because I keep confusing you with sweet, passionate Rose, I suppose, whereas all the time cool, practical Rosanna was merely using me for her own ends.’
She opened her mouth to deny this, then thought better of it as she found herself backed up against the newel-post at the foot of the stairs. It was neither the time nor the place to confess she’d wanted to see him again for his own sake.
‘I’ve been gazing at that portrait for weeks,’ said Ewen softly, his eyes locked with hers. ‘I thought I was seeing things when you opened the door to me.’
Rosanna swallowed. ‘I’m not Rose, and you’re not Harry.’ She dodged away, but Ewen caught her easily, and locked his arms round her.
‘True, Rosanna Carey,’ he said huskily, ‘yet it seems unbelievable that we’ve only just met. I’ve been living with that photograph, reading Rose’s letters, and then I find you, in the glowing, irresistible flesh. Rose reincarnated.’
‘I’m—not—Rose,’ she said through her teeth.
‘Better still. You’re warm flesh and blood—and alive,’ he said hoarsely, and brought his mouth down hard on hers. At the touch of his lips her breath left her body and the blood pounded in her ears as Ewen Fraser knocked her defences flat for the second time. Held fast against the tall, slim body which grew tense with demand, Rosanna took a regrettably long time to come to her senses at last and tear her mouth from his. Ewen raised his head a fraction to look down into her eyes, their ragged, uneven breathing mingling as she shook her head violently.
‘Why are you trembling?’ he panted. ‘Just as you said, it was only a kiss.’
She struggled to get free. ‘Let me go. Please!’
To her fury he suddenly chuckled, shaking his head as he held her closer. In command of himself again, he was so blatantly enjoying himself she wanted to scratch his laughing, slanted eyes out.
‘Oh, no!’ he retorted. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? I may never get the opportunity again. Don’t be afraid, Rosanna. I promise I wouldn’t harm Rose Norman’s granddaughter for the world.’
She ground her teeth in fury. ‘You won’t get the chance. When I allow someone to make love to me it’s because they want me, Rosanna Carey, not a ghost.’
‘So the men you know only make love to you when you allow it?’ said Ewen with interest. ‘Is that satisfactory?’
‘On my part yes. I don’t know about theirs.’ Her eyes flashed coldly. ‘Besides, we’re not talking in the plural. There’s only one.’
Ewen leaned against the newel-post without easing his hold on her in the slightest. To break free she’d have to make a fight of it. At which point Rosanna made a mortifying discovery. She didn’t want to fight. She actually enjoyed the sensation of being desired so much he wouldn’t let her go. And desire her he did. In such close physical contact it was a fact impossible to ignore.
‘I thought there must be,’ he said, sighing theatrically. ‘Who’s the lucky man? And where is he? Am I likely to see him hurtling through the door at any minute to wrest you from my arms?’
Rosanna would have given a lot to say yes. ‘No,’ she muttered into his shirt-front. ‘He’s a doctor, gaining experience in the States to add BTA to his qualifications.’
‘BTA?’
‘Been to America.’
Ewen grinned, and raised her face to his. ‘Would he mind if he knew you were here like this? With me?’
‘He’d better,’ she snapped.
‘Then I might as well give him something to mind about.’ Ewen stifled her protest with an engulfing kiss, parting her lips with his marauding tongue. He made no move to caress her with his hands, but went on kissing her with unflagging relish, his arms locking her so close against him, their hearts thumped in unison. Rosanna had never been kissed like this, by someone taking so much pleasure in the process that the kisses in themselves were more erotic than anything experienced before. Even in the arms of Dr David Norton.
The thought struck Rosanna like a thunderbolt, and she wrenched herself away, clutching the newel-post. Ewen’s arms dropped and he stood back, his eyes slitted in his taut face, their uneven breathing the only sound to break the silence.
‘Time I went,’ he said gruffly at last.
‘Yes.’ She took in a deep, shaky breath.
But neither made any move. Rosanna knew she should speed Ewen Fraser on his way, in case he took her silence for acquiescence, some kind of tacit invitation to stay and take up where he had just left off. Which, she realised, was exactly what she wanted, deep down. Which was incredible. Even if there were no David she just wasn’t the type to fling herself into the arms of a man she’d known for one solitary day. Especially one who couldn’t separate Rosanna Carey of now from Rose Norman of then. If she were ever mad enough to let Ewen Fraser make love to her she would never be sure if he wanted her for herself or because she was the incarnation of Rose.
Rosanna pulled herself together and released her death grip on the newel-post. ‘Right,’ she said, in a voice intended to be brisk, but which came out so unlike her own she hardly recognised it. She cleared her throat and tried again, wishing Ewen would move, instead of looking at her as though committing her face to memory. ‘Goodnight, then, Ewen. Good luck with the book.’
‘And you,’ he said quietly. He turned to pick up his briefcase. ‘Goodnight, Rosanna. Thank you for the drink. I’ll return everything in due course.’ He reached into a pocket for his wallet and took out a card. ‘Here’s my number should you need to contact me.’
‘Thank you.’ Rosanna took it from him, privately vowing t
o have nothing at all to do with him again. Ever. ‘Ewen,’ she said impulsively as he went out, and he turned sharply in the porch.
‘Yes?’
‘I had the idea of writing about Rose before I’d even met you, or knew what you wanted. And I’m not using information that belongs to you, except for his photograph, and you can have that back if you want.’
‘I already have one very like it. You keep Harry. I’ll keep my beautiful Rose.’ He smiled crookedly, and she shook her dishevelled head.
‘You’re in love with a ghost, Ewen Fraser.’
His eyes glittered under the porch light. ‘If you mean that what happened between us just now is likely to haunt me, you’re right. But there’s no ghost involved, just the memory of you in my arms. You, Rosanna. Goodnight.’
CHAPTER THREE
ROSANNA rang her parents next morning, gave her mother a brief account of the meeting with Ewen Fraser, and told her Harry’s letters had been duly handed over.
‘He gave me Rose’s letters in return.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Henrietta Carey, the catch in her voice plainly audible down the line. ‘I can’t wait to read them. What did you think of Harry and his letters?’
‘Quite a man. Poor Rose. Poor Harry, too. Apparently he never married.’
‘How sad. Did you like Ewen Fraser, by the way?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosanna with perfect truth. ‘He’s—rather charming.’
‘Are you going to see him again?’
‘No, Mother.’
‘Have you heard from David lately?”
‘Yes, of course. He rang on Sunday, as usual. He’s working very hard.’
‘I’m sure he is, darling. Sam sends his love, by the way.’
‘Is he well?’
‘Fighting fit. He told you to come with us next time.’
After talking to her parents the house seemed empty to Rosanna. She’d slept very badly after Ewen’s departure the night before, burning with guilt over the disloyalty to David. But it was only a kiss, she told herself. David would understand. Not that she was going to tell 34 him, just in case he didn’t. News like that didn’t travel well.
In spite of her restless night she’d been awake at first light, and the day stretched emptily in front of her. Which was what she’d longed for last week when she was working like a dog for Charlie, she reminded herself irritably, so she’d better make the most of it, and start on some serious research for her novel.
A visit to the local library provided her with a stack of helpful literature, fact and fiction, including Siegfried Sassoon’s account of life in the trenches. And on the way home Rosanna called into a bookshop and bought a copy of Savage Dawn. Just out of curiosity.
From now on, thought Rosanna dryly, she could hardly complain about having nothing to do.
She resisted the temptation to read Ewen’s book first. Instead she went out into the garden with a picnic lunch and started on Sassoon’s memoirs to get herself in the mood.
Rosanna read all afternoon and evening, regularly dipping into the factual, pictorial accounts alongside Sassoon’s graphic, understated account of trench warfare. She ate her supper while she read, and made notes and drank endless mugs of tea and coffee. By eight in the evening her eyes were protesting and she was so stiff from sitting in one position she had a long, leisurely soak in the bath, watched television for an hour or so, then locked up and went to bed with Ewen’s book.
His style was spare, but so evocative. The African heat fairly sizzled from the pages as she read. Rosanna was drawn to the soldier hero from the first, and found herself identifying with the woman he loved to such a degree that her heart began hammering during the first love scene between them. Afterwards she lay awake in the dark for hours, shaken by the fact that Ewen’s written word conjured up his own lovemaking all too vividly. She burned with guilt, furious with herself for responding so helplessly. She was going to marry David Norton. She’d known David for ever, and his lovemaking was very… Very what? Rosanna let out a deep, irritated sigh. At the moment she couldn’t remember what it was like. Whereas she could feel Ewen Fraser’s kisses on her mouth even now.
Next morning Rosanna was up early again, in need of exercise before any more reading. To her surprise she found two letters addressed to her amongst her parents’ mail. One, as expected, was from David, but the writing on the other envelope was unfamiliar. She made herself read every word of David’s cheery, affectionate missive before she opened the other letter, her heart skipping a beat when she saw Ewen’s signature. He began rather formally by thanking her for his uncle’s letters, and the evenings Rosanna had given up to help him with his research. Then he went on to say how grateful he was to Harry Manners for leading him to a meeting with Rose Norman’s granddaughter.
In another way I regret it. Deeply. You were right. I am haunted. But not by Rose Norman. I can’t sleep for thoughts of you, Rosanna. I keep seeing your face, feeling your lips parting under mine, the warmth of your delectable body in my arms.
He went on in the same vein for several more lines, then signed himself simply as ‘Ewen’. Rosanna stared blindly at the black, slanted script of what could only be described as a love letter. Lust, not love, she told herself scornfully. Ewen Fraser had merely taught her a chemistry lesson, amazing her by her response to a virtual stranger. And for no particular reason that she could fathom. Ewen was no macho he-man bursting with testosterone. Nevertheless there was something lethally attractive about his tall, loose-limbed body, and the wide, expressive mouth that knew so well how to kiss a girl senseless… She took a deep breath, made herself some coffee, then went out for a run in the park to burn off feelings roused by a few words on paper. Clever devil, she thought bitterly. No wonder his books sold.
Next morning Rosanna received a second letter from Ewen, telling her how he was getting on with his book and asking about the progress of hers. And once more he ended with a few pulse-quickening lines which left her shaken and restless, and in need of a longer run than usual before she could settle to her research. Afterwards she went round to the Claytons’ house and used Charlie’s machine to send Ewen a fax, telling him to stop writing to her. And to her surprise, and utterly savage disappointment, he did.
On Saturday, a week later, Rosanna went round to the flat in Bayswater to collect some clothes, and found Louise on her way out to spend the weekend with a new man. This was definitely the one, said Louise, starry-eyed, but Rosanna had heard that one before. Often. She laughed affectionately, wished Louise good luck, then went off to do some solitary window-shopping. After a visit to the cinema later on Rosanna finally went home, feeling thoroughly out of sorts. There had been no more letters from Ewen, and none from David, either. He rang her instead, to apologise for lack of time to write, and promised to come home for a holiday soon. And, to make matters worse, she missed Ewen’s brief, passionate notes far more than she missed David’s accounts of life in Boston.
On impulse Rosanna rang David’s Boston number, but a recorded message was her only reward. She left a brief greeting and rang off, feeling restless and lonely, resigned to a Saturday evening with only the television and a novel for company.
When the phone rang later she was in the kitchen, trying to whip up the enthusiasm to make herself something to eat. She brightened, and raced into the hall to answer it. ‘Hi, David!’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Rosanna,’ said a deep, husky voice very different from David Norton’s. But just as recognisable.
‘Who is this?’ she said, after a pause.
His laugh raised the hairs down her spine. ‘Ewen. As you well know.’
‘Hello, Ewen. This is a surprise. How are you?’
‘All the better for talking to you, Rosanna. Though I didn’t expect to at this time on a Saturday night.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was sure you’d be out, socialising somewhere.’
‘Louise is otherwise engaged.’
‘And is she
the only one you go out with?’
‘No. I have another friend, Maxine, but she’s on holiday.’
‘You mean that while the good doctor’s in the States you do without male company of any kind?’
‘Not necessarily. Sometimes I see old college friends. But no one’s around at the moment.’
‘In that case would he object if you had dinner with me?’
‘I have no idea. Besides, it’s me you should be asking, not David.’
‘I am asking you, Rosanna. Will you?’
Rosanna wanted very badly to say yes. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said at last.
‘Why not?’
‘You can ask that, after the letters you sent me?’
‘Were they so offensive?’
She was silent for a moment. ‘Not offensive, exactly. But you shouldn’t have written to me like that.’
‘I haven’t since you told me to stop.’
‘I know. Thank you.’
‘Something’s wrong, Rosanna,’ he persisted. ‘Tell me.’
‘You’ll laugh,’ she said, depressed.
‘From your tone it doesn’t seem likely!’ He paused. ‘Rosanna, all I’m asking is an evening spent together. My intentions are of the best. Or are you convinced my sole object is seduction?’
‘I hope I’m not so conceited,’ she retorted. ‘Why do you want to see me?’
‘I can tell something’s wrong. I want to know what it is.’
Rosanna sighed dispiritedly. ‘It’s nothing you can do anything about.’
‘Rosanna,’ said Ewen after a pause, ‘is it something to do with David?’
‘No. Nothing at all.’
‘I see. Or rather I don’t see.’ He paused. ‘Let’s discuss it over dinner. Though if you don’t want to talk about it I won’t press you. Afterwards I’ll deliver you to your door without even a peck on the cheek.’
The Temptation Trap Page 3
