Stranger from the Past & Proof of Their Sin

by Penny Jordan

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘THAT’S right, Gareth,’ he mimicked savagely, unfolding his frame from the side of Sybilla’s car and coming towards her, saying dangerously, ‘I do hope you weren’t thinking of driving yourself home, Sybilla.’

  Immediately she flared back angrily, ‘And if I was what business is it of yours?’

  ‘I do happen to be a fellow road-user,’ he told her drily, ‘and as such I resent my life being imperilled by the potentially dangerous driving of someone who is not only under the influence of drugs, but who is also too stubbornly stupid to see that in her present physical state she has no right to be behind the wheel of a car at all.’

  For a moment she was too surprised to speak.

  ‘Joined the police force now, have you?’ she taunted him angrily. ‘Well, for your information—’ The deep wrenching shudder that tore through her prevented her from continuing with what she had been about to say.

  She tried to evade him as he came towards her, but couldn’t summon the energy to move so she was grasped firmly by the upper arms and dragged within inches of his body as he demanded brusquely, ‘Don’t be a fool. You’re shivering so much you can hardly move, never mind drive. Do you honestly think I’d let you drive yourself home in this state? Do you think anyone responsible would? I’ll take you home.’

  ‘But my car—’ she started to protest weakly.

  ‘To hell with your car. Look, I’ll arrange to have it picked up and brought back to you in the morning,’ he told her, refusing to let go of her as she struggled to push him away.

  ‘I can’t let you do this,’ she told him almost fretfully, tears not very far away. It seemed so unfair that, after all she had done…after all she had put herself through, fate was forcing her to endure his company like this…forcing her into a situation which it must know she simply did not have the self-control to cope with.

  ‘Letting me doesn’t come into it,’ Gareth told her derisively. ‘Now, are you going to walk across to my car or do I have to carry you?’

  Before she could say a word he muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t quite catch and then told her brusquely, ‘On second thoughts, carrying you will probably be quicker and simpler,’ and then before she could stop him he was swinging her up into his arms, causing her to cling wildly to his dinner-suit jacket as a wave of dizziness attacked her.

  She tried to tell him to put her down, but somehow the words became lost, confused by the opposing commands given out by her brain and her heart.

  Make him stop…make him put you down, her brain ordered, but her heart, her body, her senses…traitorously they whispered to her that wasn’t this, after all, what she wanted, what she had yearned for?

  Treacherously they urged her to give in to the temptation to relax in his hold, to curl her body into the protective warmth of his, to close her eyes and absorb the long-familiar and long-ached-for scent of him, to place her free hand against his heart. It was beating faster than it should, she recognised, and then acknowledged that even her small frame was still quite a weight for a man to carry and was doubtless responsible for the increased tempo.

  When they reached his car he put her down beside the passenger-door, easing her slowly and carefully to the ground and holding her, supported—or imprisoned, perhaps—within the curve of his left arm while he used his right hand to unlock the door.

  The seats in his car were far more comfortable than those in hers, she acknowledged tiredly as she closed her eyes and leaned back against the head-rest.

  Beside her, Gareth put the car in motion, its engine smooth, almost soundless.

  He was a good driver, but that was something she had already known.

  She remembered his first car. His grandfather had paid half the cost of it and Gareth had saved the other half from a summer job between leaving school and going on to university. A bright yellow Mini, she had affectionately been named ‘Pudding’, partly because of her shape, he had explained to an admiring Sybilla, and partly because she was custard-yellow.

  She remembered the first time he had taken her out for a drive, how proud and excited she had felt. How grown-up, despite the fact that her hair had been in plaits and she’d been wearing white socks and Clarks school sandals.

  Unknowingly her mouth had curved into a soft reminiscent smile. Seeing it, Gareth demanded harshly, ‘Whoever you’re thinking about obviously appeals to you far more than I do.’

  His comment caused Sybilla to open her eyes and turn her head to stare at him in surprise.

  For a moment he had almost sounded… resentful…bitter…jealous…but that, of course, was impossible.

  ‘As a matter of fact I was thinking about Pudding,’ she told him, honestly too surprised to contemplate evasion. ‘Remembering how thrilled I was the first time you took me out in her.’

  ‘Pudding.’ Gareth’s mouth curled into a smile. ‘Mm. Those were happy times. A pity that—’

  ‘That they had to end. That I had to go and spoil everything,’ she challenged bitingly. ‘What did you expect, Gareth—that I would stay a child forever?’

  She closed her eyes again, turning her face away from him, not really surprised that he didn’t make any response to her angry accusation. After all, what response could he make? They both knew the truth.

  With her eyes half open, the engine humming almost silently, the darkness of the night all around them, the confines of the car forced an intimacy she would have preferred not to experience. Although she tried not to give in to the temptation to do so, her body was already moving restlessly, forcing her to turn in Gareth’s direction so that she could see the way his hands rested on the steering-wheel, the way the fabric of his trousers pulled against the muscles in his thighs when he changed gear.

  Humiliation scalded her that she should be so physically aware of him, so filled by the aching need to reach out and touch him, to smooth her hand along his thigh, to experience for herself the taut strength of his body, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, the softness of his body-hair, to…

  She swallowed the whimper of anguish burning in her throat as her body responded to the provocation of her own thoughts, the ache low down inside her gathering and intensifying, the tightness of her nipples causing them to swell and harden, to push against the soft fabric of her dress, so that when she moved protestingly in her seat, restlessly trying to blot out what she was feeling, she inadvertently dragged the silky-textured fabric against her own body, the friction causing the ache in her breasts to intensify.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Gareth was looking at her, and colour bloomed on her skin as she suppressed the urge to take a hasty downward look at her own body just to reassure herself that he could not possibly have seen the hard thrust of her nipples, concealed as it was by the soft ruching of her dress.

  Was there some male instinct, some male sixth sense that alerted a man to the fact that a woman found him physically desirable even when there was no outward evidence to prove that fact?

  She was surely letting her imagination, her dread of his discovering how she felt, what she was enduring, frighten her with danger that could not possibly exist.

  Even so… She moved uncomfortably in her seat, turning away from him, acknowledging that, for some rebellious reason, this action seemed to intensify all her aches and pains, so that it seemed her very joints were linked in some conspiracy to undermine her. Even her throat seemed to ache more when she turned this way. But what was an aching throat when compared with the humiliation of Gareth’s recognising her physical arousal and knowing that he was the cause of it?

  ‘Are you all right?’ His quiet question broke the silence between them.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she told him almost crossly. ‘My throat’s sore, I ache all over, and—’

  ‘And you say you’ve only got a cold,’ he derided her, interrupting her. ‘What on earth possessed you to come out tonight anyway? By rights you should have stayed at home in
bed.’

  ‘And spared you the necessity of having to endure my company. I only wish I had.’

  She gasped as the car came to an abrupt halt and Gareth turned to her, reaching out and taking her arm, holding her imprisoned as he said savagely, ‘Right, that’s it. I’ve had just about as much of this as I can stand. Why the hell do you keep accusing me of not wanting your company? You’re the one who’s spent the last ten years avoiding mine. You’re the one who’s made a point of being out of town whenever I was likely to come home. You’re the one who’s literally crossed the road to walk on the other side rather than speak to me. And why, for God’s sake? Why?’

  Sybilla stared at him. She was trembling, she discovered absently, whether from shock because he was still touching her or from the force of the anger building up inside her, she had no idea.

  ‘You can ask me that? You know why, Gareth. You know quite well why I’ve spent the last ten years avoiding you. All right, so at fifteen I thought you were a god among men. I worshipped the ground you trod…I even fancied myself in love with you, but that was a child’s fantasy. It’s over now,’ she lied, unable to look at him. ‘I do realise how…how you felt…’ She stopped, her voice suspended, unable to go on, unable to reveal to him her knowledge of how irritating and unwelcome he had found her adoration and love.

  He was silent for so long that she risked a look at him. He had released her arm and was sitting rigidly in his seat, staring out of the window into the darkness.

  ‘You knew. I never… Yes, now I do understand,’ he told her, and oddly his voice was very bleak. ‘I suppose that should have occurred to me, for I thought foolishly that I’d kept my feelings to myself, that you didn’t—’

  ‘Please, I don’t want to talk about it,’ Sybilla interrupted him huskily.

  ‘And I take it that we can’t be…friends.’

  His question stunned her, making her throat ache not with pain, but with suppressed tears. For a moment he had sounded almost humble…almost pleading…but that surely must be her imagination working overtime again.

  She couldn’t summon the words to respond and could only shake her head, eventually saying thickly, ‘No, I don’t think I could…’

  She couldn’t go on…couldn’t tell him that she just did not believe she had the will-power to endure his friendship where she wanted his love…that sooner or later she was bound to betray to him what she felt, and that once she had done… Well, the situation was embarrassing enough as it was.

  Some sensation, some awareness of him making a move towards her made her flinch back from him, dreading his contempt, his pity, and she froze when she heard him curse under his breath.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sybilla, don’t make it worse for me than it already is.’ And then unbelievably he was reaching for her, taking her in his arms, ignoring her gasped protest, her shaky whispering of his name as he closed the gap between them and told her broodingly, ‘You aren’t fifteen any more, Sybilla, and this isn’t forbidden between us now.’

  His words were whispered against her lips. She knew he was going to kiss her, but what she did not know was why. Out of pity…out of anger…out of some emotion she could only try to guess at as she fought to stifle the pain burgeoning inside her, the need to turn her face and plead with him not to torment her like this…not to hurt her by giving her something which could never be anything more than a pale shadow of the intimacy she really wanted.

  She tried to say his name and discovered that she couldn’t because his lips were already caressing hers, exploring their shape slowly, lingering, while his hands slid into her hair, gently supporting her head.

  This was a dream. It had to be. This couldn’t possibly really be happening, and yet it was. There was no way she could have imagined the sensation that shot through her as his tongue-tip found the small wound on her bottom lip that he himself had inflicted.

  ‘Sybilla.’ He said her name slowly, achingly, as though he was savouring it, his tongue-tip exploring the shape of her mouth, causing her flesh to burn and her bones to melt.

  Somehow, and she didn’t know how or when it had happened, her hands had slid beneath his jacket and were pressed flat against his chest. He moved one with his free hand, urging her to slide it around him and then, as its twin followed suit, he closed the gap between their bodies.

  She shuddered as the need inside her bolted out of control, closing her eyes, curling her fingers into his back, stifling a small sob at the back of her throat as he moved and the friction of his movement caused her swollen nipples to throb unbearably.

  ‘Gareth, please,’ she begged him.

  ‘One goodbye kiss, a formal ending to our old relationship. It’s something we both need,’ he told her harshly, and she knew she couldn’t deny it, couldn’t deny him, even though her heart ached over that word ‘goodbye’.

  His hand touched her face, cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking the corner of her mouth and then her bottom lip. She could hardly breathe, her body ached so much, but not now with the kind of pain that came from her cold.

  This ache was caused by the overwhelming need she felt for him…the almost uncontrollable desire to take hold of his hands and place them on her body, to show him…beg him…

  She made a small inarticulate sound of distress, flinching as his gaze focused on her, his eyes brilliant and dark.

  She tried to pull away from him but her sleeve caught against one of the buttons of his jacket as she tried to withdraw her arms from his body, pulling the neckline of her dress so that it slid completely free of her shoulder.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath it—the dress’s boning made it unnecessary—but now, as she saw how much of her body was revealed, she wished that she were. Now having slid free of her shoulder, the neckline of her dress was gaping to show not only the soft swell of her breast, but also the taut and swollen nipple that crowned it.

  She took a deep shuddering breath, her body tight with anguish and shame, trying desperately to pull away, to turn her head, but Gareth’s hand against her jaw held her captive, her eyes huge and dazed with the conflicting confusion of her emotions as she realised that he still intended to kiss her…that…

  ‘Gareth…’

  Her intended denial became a soft whimper of mind-destroying pleasure as his mouth touched hers, not, as it had done before, in anger…but with warmth and gentleness, his kiss explorative, delicate, slow, as though he wanted to take the time to absorb every minute sensation from the tremulous satin-softness of her outer lips to the betraying moistness of her mouth itself.

  And all she could do was to cling helplessly to him, drowning in the rip-tide of passion that was storming through her.

  When his tongue parted her lips and the gentleness of his kiss turned to passion she stopped trying to tell herself that she ought to resist, and instead gave way to the anguished need tormenting her body, clinging to him, responding to him, answering the passion he was giving her.

  When his hand touched her breast it wasn’t alarm bells that rang inside her, but a fierce, wild clarion peal of delight. Her body was no longer prepared to listen to the urgings of her mind, to its plea for caution, for care. It felt no shame, no danger in allowing Gareth to know how much his touch pleasured it.

  She heard him groan, felt the shift in weight of his body and then its aroused hardness as he pushed down the top of her dress and cupped her naked breasts with his hands, stroking her erect nipples while he continued to kiss her with an intimacy she had never imagined experiencing.

  This was not Gareth the god whom she had put on a pedestal. Neither was it Gareth the distant cold stranger, nor even Gareth the angry contemptuous enemy. This was another Gareth…a Gareth her senses had always told her must exist, but a Gareth who until now had been a stranger to her.

  When his mouth left hers and started to explore the soft slope of her shoulder her response was immediate, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, her breasts swelling, her body trembling
with eager anticipation.

  Gareth was trembling too, or was that merely her imagination?

  A low moan of pleasure was dragged from her throat, her whole body convulsed by a shudder of delight as his tongue stroked her nipple, circling it, bathing it in a moist heat.

  ‘Gar…eth…’ She couldn’t help herself. She moaned his name in a helpless plea for the pleasure he was withholding from her, a soft whimper of anguished delight emerging from her throat when he started suckling on her breast, gently at first, slowly and tenderly, and then, as though he realised the intensity of her need, far less gently so that the pleasure he gave her made her whole body shudder over and over again.

  When he released her breast and gathered her closely against him, kissing her mouth with the kind of passion she had never remotely imagined experiencing, she stopped trying to analyse what was happening and why and simply gave herself up to the delirium of it.

  It was the bright lights of an oncoming car that finally brought them both to their senses, causing them to break apart, Sybilla’s face flushed and strained with tension, Gareth’s dark and set as he apologised tersely, ‘I’m sorry. That should never have happened. I never intended—’

  ‘Look, please just take me home,’ Sybilla begged him, tugging her dress back into place, unable to bring herself to look at him as she turned towards the darkness outside the passenger window.

  ‘Sybilla—’

  ‘Please. I don’t want to discuss it, Gareth. As you just said, it should never have happened. Now will you please take me home?’

  She was so close to breaking-point. She felt as though her very bones would break under the strain of it. Dear God, what on earth had she done? He must know now how she felt about him. How she still felt about him after all these years. It was different for a man. He could experience passion, desire…physical arousal with a woman for whom emotionally he felt nothing at all. He was not a fool, she knew that.

  She could only pray that he would be as anxious as she was herself to put what had just happened between them right out of his mind.