by Penny Jordan
‘Hurled at me in a fit of temper,’ Oliver finished for her.
She had started to shiver again, Lisa noticed, hugging her arms around herself despite the warmth of the bedroom, with its soft fitted carpet and heavy damask curtains.
That whisky really had gone to her head, she acknowledged as a wave of dizziness swept over her, making her sway and reach out instinctively for the nearest solid object to cling onto—the nearest solid object being Oliver himself.
As he detached her hand from his arm she looked up at him muzzily, only to gasp in startled surprise as she was suddenly swung very firmly up into his arms.
‘What… what are you doing?’ she managed to stammer as he strode towards the bed, carrying her.
‘Saving us both a lot of time,’ he told her drily as he deposited her with unexpected gentleness on the mattress before asking her, ‘Can you manage to get undressed or…?’
‘Yes, of course I can,’ Lisa responded in a flurry of mingled indignation and flushed self-consciousness, adding defensively, ‘I… I just felt a little bit dizzy, that’s all… I’m all right now…’
He didn’t look totally convinced, and Lisa discovered that she was holding her breath as she watched him walk towards the bedroom door, unable to expel it until she was sure that he had walked through it and closed it behind him.
He really was the most extraordinary man, she decided ten minutes later as she lay in a huge bath of heavenly, deep hot water.
At Henry’s parents’ house both baths and hot water had been rationed and now it was sheer bliss to ease her aching limbs into the soothing heat, even if something about the steamy atmosphere of the bathroom did somehow seem to increase the dizzying effect that the whisky had had on her system. She felt, she recognised when she eventually reluctantly climbed out of the bath and wrapped herself in one of the huge, warm, fluffy towels on the heated rail, not just physically affected by the alcohol but mentally and emotionally affected by it as well, as though she was on some sort of slightly euphoric high, free of the burden of her normal, cautious, self-imposed restraints.
Shaking her head, she towelled herself dry, remembering only when she had finished that she had no night-clothes.
Shrugging fatalistically, she wrapped herself in another towel instead and padded towards the bed, discarding it as she climbed into the bed’s welcoming warmth.
The bedlinen was cotton and deliciously soft against her skin. It smelled faintly of lavender. She breathed in the scent blissfully as she closed her eyes. After the austere regime of Henry’s parents’ home this was luxury indeed.
She was just on the point of falling asleep when she heard the bedroom door open. In the half-light from the landing she could see Oliver walking towards the bed carrying something.
As he reached the bed she struggled to sit up.
‘I’ve brought you a hot-water bottle,’ he told her. ‘Just in case you get cold during the night.’
His thoughtfulness surprised her. He was the last person she would have expected to show such consideration, such concern.
Tears filled her eyes as she took it from him, and on some impulse, which when she later tried to rationalise it she could only put down to the effects of the whisky on her system, she reached out and lifted her face towards his, kissing him.
He must have moved, done something… turned his head, because she had never intended to kiss him so intimately, only to brush her lips against his cheek in a small gesture of gratitude for his care of her. She had certainly never planned to do anything so bold as kiss him on the lips, but oddly, even though her brain had registered her error, her body seemed to be having trouble responding to its frantic message to remove her mouth from the male one which confusingly, instead of withdrawing from her touch, seemed to be not merely accepting it but actually actively…
Lisa swallowed, panicked, swallowed again and jerked her head back, only to find that somehow or other Oliver’s hand was resting on her nape, preventing her from doing anything other than lift her lips a mere breath away from his.
‘If that’s the way you kissed Henry, I’m not surprised the two of you never went to bed together,’ she heard him telling her sardonically. ‘If you want to kiss a man you should do it properly,’ he added reprovingly, and then before she could explain or even object he had closed the small distance between them and his mouth was back on hers, only this time it wasn’t merely resting there against her unintended caress but slowly moving on hers, slowly caressing hers, slowly and then not so slowly arousing her, so that…
It must be the drink, Lisa decided giddily. There could be no other reason why she was virtually clinging to Oliver with both her hands, straining towards him almost as though there was nothing she wanted more than the feel of his mouth against her own.
It had to be the drink. There could be no other explanation for the way her lips were parting, positively inviting the masterful male thrust of his tongue. And it had to be the drink as well that was causing her to make those small, keening, soft sounds of pleasure as their tongues meshed.
And then abruptly and shockingly erotically Oliver’s mouth hardened on her own, so that it was no longer possible for her to deceive herself that what they were sharing was simply a kiss of polite gratitude. No longer possible at all, especially when the rest of her body was suddenly, urgently waking up to the fact that it actively liked what Oliver was doing and that in fact it would very much like to prolong the sensual, drugging pleasure of the way his mouth was moving on hers and, if at all possible, to feel it moving not just on her mouth but on her…
Shocked by her own reactions, Lisa sobered up enough to push Oliver away, her eyes over-bright and her mouth trembling—not, she admitted inwardly, because he had kissed her, but because he had stopped doing it.
‘I never meant that to happen,’ she told him huskily, anxious to make sure that he understood that even though she might have responded to him she had not deliberately set out to encourage such intimacy between them.
‘I just wanted to say thank you for—’
‘For making Henry think you’re having an affair with me,’ he mocked her as he sat back from her. ‘Go to sleep,’ he advised her, adding softly, ‘unless you want me to take up the invitation these have been offering me…’ As he spoke he reached out and very lightly touched one of her exposed breasts.
The bedclothes must have slipped down whilst he’d been kissing her, revealing her body to him, even though she herself hadn’t realised it, Lisa recognised. And they hadn’t just revealed her body, either, she admitted as her face flushed to a pink as deep as that of her tight, hard nipples.
Quickly she pulled the bedclothes up over herself, clutching them defensively in front of her, her face still flushed, and flushing even deeper as she saw the fleeting but very comprehensive and male glance that Oliver gave her now fully covered body.
‘Forget about Henry,’ he advised her as he turned to leave. ‘You’re better off without him.’
He had gone before Lisa could think of anything to say—which in the circumstances was probably just as well, she decided as she settled back into the warmth of the bed. After all, what was there she possibly could have said? Her body grew hot as she remembered the way he had kissed her, her toes curling protestingly as she fought down the memory of her own far from reluctant reaction.
No wonder there had been that male gleam of sensual triumph in his eyes as he’d looked at her body—a look which had told her quite plainly that he enjoyed the knowledge that he had been responsible for that unmistakable sexual arousal of her body—his touch… his kiss… him.
It had been an accident, that was all, Lisa reassured herself. A fluke, an unfortunate sequence of events which, of course, would never be repeated. Her toes had relaxed but there was a worrying sensual ache deep within her body—a sense of… of deprivation and yearning which she tried very firmly to ignore as she closed her eyes and told herself sternly to go to sleep.
CHAPTER FI
VE
LISA OPENED HER EYES, confused by her unfamiliar surroundings, until the events of the previous evening came rushing back.
Some of those events were quite definitely ones that she did not want to dwell on and which had to be pushed very firmly back where they belonged—in a sealed box marked ‘very dangerous’. And some of those events, and in particular the ones involving that unexpectedly passionate kiss she had shared with Oliver, were, quite simply, far too potentially explosive to be touched at all.
Instead she focused on her surroundings, her eyes widening in disbelief as she looked towards the fireplace. She rubbed them and then studied it again. No, they were not deceiving her; there was quite definitely a long woollen stocking hanging from the fireplace—a long woollen stocking bulging with all sorts of odd shapes, with a notice pinned to it reading, ‘Open me.’
Her curiosity overcoming her natural caution, Lisa hopped out of bed and hurried towards the fireplace, removed the stocking and then returned to the sanctuary of her bed with it.
As she turned it upside down on the coverlet to dislodge its contents, a huge smile curled her mouth, her eyes dancing with a mixture of almost childlike disbelief and a rather more adult amusement.
Wrapped in coloured tissue-paper, a dozen or more small objects lay on the bed around her. Some of them she could recognise without unwrapping them: the two tangerines, the nuts, the apple…
There could, of course, only be one person who had done this; the identity of her unexpected Father Christmas could not be in doubt, but his motivation was.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she removed the wrapping from what turned out to be a tube of thick white paper. As she unrolled it she began to frown, her frown turning to a soft gasp as she read what had been written on it in impressive copperplate handwriting.
In this year of our Sovereign Queen Elizabeth it is hereby agreed that there shall be a formal truce and a cessation of hostilities between Mistress Lisa and Oliver Esquire in order that the two aforenamed may celebrate the Festival of Christmas in true Christian spirit.
Beneath the space that he had left for her to sign her own name Oliver had signed his.
Lisa couldn’t help it. She started to laugh softly, her laugh turning into a husky cough and a fit of sneezes that told her that she had not, as she had first hoped, escaped the heavy cold Oliver had warned likely the previous evening.
At least, though, her head was clear this morning, she told herself severely as she scrabbled around amongst the other packages on the bed, guessing that somewhere amongst them there must be a pen for her to sign their truce.
It touched her to think of Oliver going to so much trouble on her behalf. If only Henry had been half as thoughtful… But Henry would never have done anything like this. Henry would never have kissed her the way Oliver had done last night. Henry would never…
Her fingers started to tremble as she finally found the parcel containing the pen.
It hurt to think that the future that she had believed she and Henry could have together had been nothing more than a chimera… as childish in its way as her daydreams of a perfect Christmas which she had revealed to Oliver last night, under the effects and influence of his malt whisky.
Her eyes misted slightly with fresh tears, but they were not, this time, caused by the knowledge that she had made a mistake in believing that she and Henry had a good relationship.
After she had signed the truce she noticed that her signature was slightly wobbly and off balance—a reflection of the way she herself had felt ever since Oliver had thrust his way into her life, demanding the return of his cousin’s girlfriend’s clothes.
Thinking of clothes reminded Lisa that she had nothing to wear other than the things she had discarded the previous evening. Hardly the kind of outfit she had planned to spend Christmas Day in, she acknowledged as she mourned the loss of the simply cut cream wool dress that she had flung at Oliver’s feet before her departure from Henry’s parents’ house.
Still, clothes did not make Christmas, she told herself, and neither did Christmas stockings—but they certainly went a long way to help, she admitted, a rueful smile curling her mouth as she pictured Oliver painstakingly wrapping the small traditional gifts which for generations children had delighted to find waiting for them on Christmas morning.
It was a pity that after such an unexpected and pleasurable start the rest of her Christmas looked so unappealingly bleak. She wasn’t looking forward to her return to her empty flat. She glanced at her watch. She had slept much later than usual and it was already nine o’clock—time for her to get up and dressed if she was going to be able to retrieve her car, fill it with petrol and make her return journey to London before dark.
She had just put one foot on the floor when she heard Oliver knocking on the bedroom door. Hastily she put her foot back under the bedclothes and made sure that the latter were secured firmly around her naked body as she called out to Oliver to come in. She didn’t want there to be any repeat of last night’s still blush-inducing faux pas of not realising that her breasts were clearly on view.
The sight of him carrying a tea-tray complete with a china teapot, two cups and a plate of wholemeal toast made her eyes widen slightly.
‘So you found it, then. How are you feeling?’ he asked her as he placed the tray on the empty half of her bed, half smiling as he saw the clutter of small objects still surrounding her and the evidence of her excitement as she had unwrapped them in the small, shredded pieces of paper torn by her impatient fingers.
‘Much better,’ Lisa assured him. ‘Just as soon as I can get my car sorted out I should be off your hands and on my way back to London. I still haven’t thanked you properly for what you did,’ she added, half-shyly. Last night the intimacy between them had seemed so natural that she hadn’t even questioned it. This morning she was acutely conscious of the fact that he was, after all, a man she barely knew.
His soft, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ as he looked directly at her mouth made her flush, but there was more amusement in his eyes than any kind of sexual threat, she acknowledged.
‘I haven’t thanked you for the stocking either,’ she hurried on. ‘That was… I… You must think me very childish to want… I’m not used to drinking, and your whisky… I’ve signed this, by the way.’ She tried to excuse herself, diving amongst her spoils to produce the now rerolled truce.
As she did so she suddenly started to sneeze, and had to reach out for the box of tissues beside the bed.
‘I thought you said you were feeling all right,’ Oliver reminded her sardonically.
‘I am,’ Lisa defended herself, but now that she was fully awake she had to acknowledge that her throat felt uncomfortably raw and her head ached slightly, whilst yet another volley of sneezes threatened to disprove her claim to good health.
‘You’re full of a cold,’ Oliver corrected her, ‘and in no fit state to drive back to London—even if we could arrange for someone to collect your car.’
‘But I have to… I must…’ Lisa protested.
‘Why… in case Henry calls?’
‘No,’ Lisa denied vehemently, her face flushing again as she suddenly realised how little thought she had actually given to Henry and the end of their romance.
But it was obvious that Oliver had mistaken the cause of her hot face because he gave her an ironic look and told her, ‘It will never work. He’ll always be tied to his mother’s apron strings and you’ll always have to take second place to her…
‘It’s half past nine now,’ he told her, changing the subject. ‘The village is only ten minutes away by car and we’ve got time to make it for morning service. I’ve put the turkey in the oven but it won’t be ready until around three…’
Lisa gaped at him.
‘But I can’t stay here,’ she protested.
‘Why not?’ he asked her calmly. ‘What reason have you to go? You’ve already said that you’ll be alone in your flat, and since I’ll be alone up he
re—if you discount a fifteen-pound turkey and enough food to feed the pair of us several times over—it makes sense for you to stay…’
‘You want me to stay?’ Lisa asked him, astonished. ‘But…’
‘It will be a hell of a lot easier having you to stay than trying to find a reputable mechanic to sort out and make arrangements for a garage to collect your car, check it over and refuel it. And having one guest instead of two is hardly going to cause me any hardship…’ He gave a small shrug.
It was a tempting prospect, Lisa knew. If she was honest with herself she hadn’t been looking forward to returning to her empty flat, and even though she and Oliver were virtually strangers there was something about him that… Severely she gave herself a small mental shake.
All right, so maybe last night her body had reacted to him in a way that it had certainly never reacted to Henry… Maybe when he had kissed her she had felt a certain… need… a response… but that had only been the effect of the whisky… nothing more.
She opened her mouth to decline his invitation, to do the sensible thing and tell him firmly that she had to return home, and instead, to her chagrin, heard herself saying in a small voice, ‘Could we really go to church…?’ As she realised what she was saying she shook her head, telling him hastily, ‘Oh, no, I can’t… I haven’t anything to wear. My clothes… your cousin’s girlfriend’s clothes.’
‘Are hanging in the closet,’ Oliver informed her wryly.
Lisa looked at him. ‘What? But they can’t be… I left them at Henry’s parents’.’
‘I didn’t,’ Oliver informed her succinctly.
‘But… but you wanted to give them back to Emma.’
‘Originally, yes, but only because Piers was so convinced that the moment she knew what he had done she’d walk out again. However, it transpires that she’s off Armani and onto Versace so Piers was allowed to make his peace with her by taking her out and buying her a new wardrobe.’
