The Cinderella Factor

by Sophie Weston

  But it was clear that she had doubts, at least.

  ‘There was nothing about it in the papers. They said you’d come back from the war zone, injured. They never mentioned her.’

  ‘So now you know something the papers don’t. Congratulations.’ Patrick was suddenly crisp. ‘Now, it’s time to go. Where’s your friend?’

  Lisa went silently to the window. Feeling as if manacles had been struck off her, Jo straightened. But Patrick did not let go her hand. To her astonishment, she felt his hold tighten. She looked at him, bewildered.

  The other girl’s head appeared in the window.

  ‘I heard,’ she said miserably. She sounded as chastened as Lisa did not. ‘We shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. A taxi will take you to wherever you’re staying.’ Patrick turned back to Lisa. ‘And if you ever—ever—invade my home again, I will tell Mercury and you’ll get your cards. Do you understand?’

  She tossed her hair. ‘You’re the one Mercury sacked. Not me.’

  ‘You’re out of date,’ said Patrick curtly.

  Lisa gaped. ‘Everyone said Lassells would never forgive you. And that you’d never forgive him.’

  ‘They were wrong.’

  Over her head Patrick met Jo’s eyes. Amazingly, she could have sworn there was amusement there. Shared secret laughter! How sexy it was!

  ‘Lassells knows a good thing when he sees it. I am. And he wants to do a programme on my book about the escape, too. As for me and my temperament—that’s all over.’ He was talking to Jo, not Lisa. His eyes danced. ‘I’m going to have a family to support.’

  Lisa looked over her shoulder and saw Jo’s face. That was what convinced her in the end.

  They left, subdued.

  Patrick saw them off at the kitchen door. Making sure they got into the Picards’ taxi, as he told Jo. Throughout, he held on to her hand absentmindedly. As the car lights disappeared down the drive she tried to withdraw it and failed. He looked at her, his mouth curling in mockery.

  ‘I suppose you think I ought to thank you for coming to the rescue?’ he said dryly.

  He still did not let go her hand. She felt a flush rise under those searching eyes. She was not under any illusion that he was grateful.

  ‘I couldn’t think of what else to do,’ Jo muttered.

  ‘You could, of course, have done nothing.’

  Which he would no doubt have preferred.

  She bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I meant well.’

  Patrick gave a soft laugh. ‘You know the one about the path to hell?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I’ve never believed in clichés. I’m beginning to think I was wrong.’

  Jo was so surprised that she stopped tugging at her hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here we are, doing absolutely everything from the best possible motives, and God knows where it’s leading us,’ he said. The strange eyes searched her face. ‘Or do you know, Jo? I sometimes wonder how much you do know behind that funny little face of yours. Where do you think this is all going to end?’

  She swallowed. How can you tell what a man like Patrick Burns means?

  He sighed. Then, freezing her into immobility, he lifted their clasped hands, turned them round, and touched her soft palm to his mouth. He held it there. Jo felt his lips against the sensitive hollow: gentle as a feather, indelible as a brand. She shivered.

  End? Where was it going to end? She didn’t even know what had started, she thought. She stood there, looking down at the dark head, her long legs trembling uncontrollably.

  ‘Please,’ she said. It was barely audible.

  Patrick looked up quickly. His face changed.

  He said her name on a swift breath.

  Jo’s eyes fell. She was aware of a nervousness she had never felt before. It was amazingly strong. She had learned any number of tricks in the last few years to control or at least disguise trepidation in difficult circumstances. Now they all seem to have deserted her.

  It bewildered her. She was not afraid of him. She was not afraid of anyone these days. She had learned to take care of herself in far worse circumstances than this. Patrick was a man she trusted, a man she respected; a man, moreover, who had been kind to her. And she was deeply in love with him. She couldn’t be afraid of him. Could she?

  The fluttering in her wrists felt like fear, though. So did the cramping constriction on her breathing. Yet if it was not fear of Patrick Burns, then of what?

  He said her name again. Reluctantly, Jo lifted her gaze. The yellow eyes were compelling. And oddly hesitant. She searched his face. She seemed to be drawing closer to him of her own accord, in spite of the wild trembling of her legs.

  She did not know whether he reached for her or whether it was she who closed the gap between them. All she knew was that she melted into his arms. He kissed her softly, his mouth gentle on her eyelids, her lips, her throat. It was slow and infinitely controlled. It set off little earthquakes along the pathways of her nervous system. She moaned. Patrick feathered his tongue round her lips. The earthquake was not so little this time. Jo squeezed her eyes tight and shivered at the feelings bubbling within her.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart. Are you sure?’ Patrick murmured against her mouth.

  She could feel him preparing to put her away from him. Outraged, hungry, frantic not to waste all that brave courage, she wound her arm round his neck and held on.

  ‘I’m not a child, Patrick,’ she said to him furiously. ‘Don’t treat me like one.’

  She pressed herself against him. And suddenly he was not in control any more.

  Jo clung to him hard. Her legs were shaking violently. She recognised that she was scared. But she knew that this was what she wanted. Had wanted since that day by the stream, if she were honest.

  Patrick said her name in a startled voice, as if the intensity of her response shocked him. So he couldn’t know how she felt about him. Jo recognised dimly that this might be a problem in the future. Very dimly. She had other things on her mind at the moment.

  His hands tightened. Jo moulded herself to him. She thought her spine would crack with the pressure. She did not care.

  His mouth left hers and travelled the sensitive skin of her throat. Jo could feel the hammer thuds of his heart under the restricting clothes. The hands that held her were not completely steady.

  ‘This is too soon. It’s madness,’ he muttered hoarsely.

  But he said it against the warmth of her naked shoulder. And he did not let her go.

  The disgraceful tee shirt slipped, caught, was bunched up in seeking hands and ripped. They both heard it.

  ‘I don’t believe I just did that,’ groaned Patrick. ‘What a cliché.’

  Jo laughed breathlessly. The night air was like a warm feather stroking across her flesh. It was not the night air which set her shivering, though.

  She caught his hand and held it under hers.

  ‘Come back with me,’ she said huskily.

  He lifted his head then. She could feel him scanning her face in the darkness.

  ‘You said I would be undisturbed in the flat unless I asked you back,’ she reminded him.

  In spite of the shivering she laughed again, a soft sound of pleasure and self-knowledge and trust. Above all, trust. She moved under his hand. Patrick caught his breath.

  ‘I’m asking,’ Jo whispered.

  He swept her up against him, so fiercely that she imagined she could feel the blood running through every vein and artery in his body. She kissed his mouth feverishly, then his forehead, his cheekbones, the unshaven jaw, the muscular column of his throat.

  ‘Please,’ she said, between little kisses.

  Patrick groaned. ‘Jo, you don’t know…’

  But she put her hand over his mouth and kissed his ear, trembling and laughing at the same time.

  ‘Please.’

  He shook his head. But he did not let her go.

  ‘I must be mad. We both must be mad,’
he said, but his arm was round her strongly and he was urging her towards the barn.

  Jo tried to unlock the door. Her hand was shaking so much she could hardly get the key in the lock. Patrick took it away from her and twisted the key with an impatient flick of the wrist. Inside, he turned to her and pulled her into his arms again.

  They made their way up the staircase, kissing and touching, murmuring to each other. Although there was no need, neither of them raised their voice above a whisper.

  Jo did not even try with the lock to her flat. Patrick unlocked it one-handed, without lifting his mouth from hers or detaching a long arm from round her waist. As soon as the lock gave he swung her up into his arms and shouldered his way into the room. Jo gave a choke of startled laughter and clung on for dear life.

  He kicked the door shut behind them.

  ‘Very stylish,’ she murmured. ‘I take it your leg is better?’

  Patrick glinted a look down at her in the darkness. ‘Doing the physiotherapist’s exercises every day. More of your good influence.’

  She laughed softly in her throat. Is that me sounding so sexy? she thought. She was half startled, half gleeful.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ she purred, practising her new-found skill.

  ‘Good.’

  He carried her across to the bed and dropped her on it. Then he bent and switched on the bedside light. Jo lay among the lace-edged pillows, her tee shirt disgracefully ragged and no covering at all. She laughed up at him, stretching tanned arms above her head. She had never felt so alive in her life.

  His eyes were pure amber. As he looked down at her his mouth was severe, but his eyes danced.

  ‘Very stylish.’ He used her own words to tease her, stroking the chestnut fronds that lay against the tender curve of her neck. ‘I’m impressed.’

  Jo looked up at him for a long moment. The laugh died out of her eyes. Slowly she reached for him, her expression serious.

  ‘You will be,’ she vowed.

  At her urging he came down to her. Jo’s fingers went to undo the buttons of his shirt, but he caught and trapped them between his own. He looked at her soberly.

  ‘My darling.’ It was so soft she hardly heard it. He pushed her hair back with an infinitely gentle gesture that somehow made her want to cry. He swallowed. ‘You’re so young. Are you sure?’

  Her smile twisted. ‘Not that young,’ she said, trying to keep it light.

  It was too late to keep her exit route clear, she thought. Not that she wanted to any more. But she had to keep it open for Patrick. He must not know how desperately she was in love with him. Her fingers twitched in his at the thought.

  He looked down, startled by the movement. Then, as he had done before, he raised their clasped fingers to his lips.

  ‘You say that now, but…’

  She leaned across and stopped the words on his mouth.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she whispered.

  This time he did not stop her when she fumbled the buttons open.

  If she had thought about it, she would have expected Patrick to take charge of their lovemaking at once. But he did not. He lay back, his hands behind his head, his smile tender, and let her undress him.

  At first hesitant, soon Jo was exploring his body in wonder. She had never imagined such closeness, such trust. When she saw the terrible scars on his leg, her eyes filled with tears. She touched her fingertips to the place gently, then brushed her cheek and her hair back and forth across the puckered skin, trying to take the remembered pain away with her touch.

  ‘Oh, that tender heart,’ said Patrick.

  Jo looked up. He was teasing her gently, but she thought she caught the echo of pain in his words.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Jo,’ he told her quietly.

  She shook her head, denying it. But she was too choked to speak. He reached a hand down and tucked the soft chestnut hair behind her ear.

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, almost to himself.

  And in that moment she felt beautiful.

  He began to kiss her then. At first it was slow, almost playful. But soon the play turned serious, and they were gasping with a need which Jo, inexperienced as she was, realised was mutual. Patrick did not make love to her as if she were too young to know about passion or too lightweight to mean it. He made love to her as if she was all he ever wanted.

  There was just one moment of hesitation when she recoiled involuntarily. It did not hurt, but it was such an indescribably new sensation that she caught her breath.

  At once Patrick checked. But Jo clung to him fiercely. She was beyond thinking, beyond control. She was all fire and feeling.

  ‘I love you,’ she said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SHE said it again, more than once through the whole of that hot, short night. Every time she did, Patrick silenced her with a passionate response that took her higher and higher, to the stars and beyond. But he never said that he loved her.

  It was very early morning when Jo awoke. She knew it was early because the air was still cool, although the blaze of light in the window across from her bed was pure gold. She stirred, giving a sigh of perfect contentment. She could never remember feeling this peaceful, this happy, before.

  She turned her head on the now hopelessly creased pillows. Patrick was asleep, face down, one arm possessively flung across her body. His face was turned towards her so that she could see the long sweep of eyelashes and the beautiful, haughty line of cheekbone and jaw.

  Jo smiled. He did not look haughty now. He looked as if a great weight had been lifted off him; as peaceful as she felt, in fact. He was smiling in his sleep. She touched a gentle finger to the corner of his mouth in wonder.

  She felt him wake under her touch. He frowned, muttered a little, the long lashes flickered. Then one golden eye opened and met her enquiring gaze. For a long moment he absorbed her. Then his smile widened.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said softly.

  Jo realised suddenly that she had been holding her breath. She had not been quite sure how Patrick would react to finding her beside him in the morning. She gave him a brilliant smile in her relief.

  ‘Good morning.’ She kissed him, and then said mischievously, ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Patrick gave a mock groan and turned onto his back, pulling her down onto his chest. He ruffled her hair.

  ‘Eventually. What about you?’

  Jo’s smile was blissful. ‘Best night of my life.’

  Patrick chuckled. ‘First of many.’

  He swung his legs out of bed and trailed off to her shower, unself-consciously naked. Jo listened to the rush of the newly installed power shower and lay back against the pillows, hands behind her head. It felt so right. Home, she thought. Blissful.

  He came back with a towel wrapped somewhat insecurely round his slim hips.

  ‘You shower. I’ll make coffee.’

  When she emerged, he was standing at the small gas ring, on which her coffee maker was bubbling cheerily, and leafing through The Furry Purry Tiger. The towel had already slipped dangerously.

  He looked up from the book. ‘Poor Jo,’ he said with compunction. ‘If this were a proper seduction we would be having champagne and fresh croissants.’ He spooned granules into her thick mugs.

  Jo went across to him and dropped her head against one warm, bare shoulder. She sniffed.

  ‘Sorry. I’ve never seduced anyone before.’

  Patrick put an arm round her and rubbed the top of her arm companionably. ‘No, but I have. I should have done better. I will next time.’ His eyes were warm, but he looked at her searchingly. ‘No regrets?’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No regrets.’

  He kissed her. ‘Long may it stay that way.’

  Something in his tone made her lift her head to look up at him.

  ‘You don’t sound very confident,’ she teased.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said soberly. Then, seeing her hurt expression, he went on quickly, ‘Mine is a wic
ked world. There are a lot of people out there who won’t want to leave us alone. It won’t be long before they invade this dream time of ours.’

  Jo shook her head. ‘You’re imagining it. No one out there is the least bit interested in us.’

  He looked unconvinced.

  ‘And even if they were,’ she said blithely, ‘we’re not interested in them, so it doesn’t matter what they say.’

  But she was wrong. And it was not Patrick’s world that invaded their dream. It was hers.

  She was having coffee with the Morrisons as usual when the phone call came.

  ‘Do we have to tell them?’ she had said to Patrick, uneasy.

  He was shrewd. ‘That we spent the night together? Don’t you want to?’

  She shook her head, suddenly shy.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t want to tell any more lies?’ he teased. But his eyes were shadowed for the first time that morning.

  ‘I don’t, but—I don’t feel comfortable with this,’ she said.

  He touched her face. ‘Always so honest.’ He sounded sad. ‘Okay. Have it your way. I won’t say anything if you don’t.’

  So she was sitting having coffee, listening to the big news about Simon’s arrangements for Patrick to take care of his refugees, as if she had not heard it all at the time, when George answered the phone and said, ‘It’s for you, Jo.’

  ‘Me?’ At first she thought it had to be Patrick, calling from somewhere to tell her to get to his side at once; he couldn’t live another hour without her. But then she answered.

  ‘Jo? Jo—they’re here. They say they’re going to take me back.’ It was Mark.

  He was nearly incoherent with panic. But Jo managed to calm him down enough to get the salient facts.

  Jacques, impressed by Carol all those years ago, had called the Greys.

  ‘I should have known,’ said Jo, white to the lips. He had been so evasive on the telephone. She had even been uneasy at the time. She just hadn’t bothered to question him. Too busy thinking about Patrick, of course! ‘I should have known.’ It was a cry of anguish.

  ‘Jo, they’re going to take me back with them. Carol says they can prosecute, and they will if I don’t go with them. Jacques says they’re my legal guardians. Brian isn’t saying anything, but he isn’t drunk so Jacques thinks he’s okay. Jacques just says I have to go. But Anne Marie told me to call you.’