Golden Fever

by Carole Mortimer

  ‘Throw them away,’ Rourke instructed throatily, moving closer to her in the water.

  ‘Throw them …?’

  ‘Mm,’ he murmured against her throat, as their bodies fused together.

  Clare gave a nervous laugh, watching as the piece of black material bobbed off into the distance. ‘Someone’s imagination is going to be working overtime when they find them,’ she said jerkily, as the full force of what she had invited suddenly washed over her.

  Rourke’s eyes were dark as he looked down at her. ‘As long as they come to the right conclusion.’

  She swallowed hard, feeling the fierce beat of his heart beneath her hand, the power of his thighs telling her how badly he wanted her. ‘Which is?’

  He ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of her mouth. ‘That tonight I’m a very lucky man.’

  Her eyes glowed as she opened her mouth to his, holding nothing back as she returned his kiss. Rourke kissed her slowly, druggingly, igniting a fire within her that set her body on fire, her arms clinging to him where she couldn’t touch the sandy ocean floor.

  But kisses weren’t enough for either of them, and soon Rourke was taking her hand to lead her out of the water and back to the beach-house.

  Clare drank in the sight of him, from his broad shoulders down his tapered waist, to the full arousal of his thighs. He looked like some bronzed pagan god, and she trembled with the anticipation of being possessed by such a man.

  They walked through the darkened beach-house to Rourke’s bedroom, Clare looking up adoringly as he gently laid her on the bed, looking at her as she had looked at him seconds earlier, slowly taking in every naked inch of her body, as if memorising it for future reference.

  ‘You’re one beautiful lady,’ he told her huskily.

  She gave a shaky laugh and pulled him down to her. ‘And you’re one beautiful man,’ she murmured, instigating the deep kiss, but not minding in the least when Rourke took control, his fierce passion taking her breath away.

  But he didn’t want to just kiss her mouth, not even taking her when she begged him to, his lips and hands exploring every inch of her body before he moaned low in his throat.

  ‘Now, Clare,’ he groaned. ‘It has to be now.’

  As his body moved over hers something inside her seemed to shut off, an age-long fear of the pain a lot of her school friends had associated with ’the first time’ coming to the fore. As Rourke’s legs parted hers she began to struggle.

  ‘No games, Clare,’ he warned, past the stage of being able to pull back, his body totally committed to making love to her.

  ‘I’m not playing—’

  His expression was savage. ‘Then you picked the wrong man to tease!’ His body possessed hers with a fierceness that made her cry out her pain. ‘My God! Clare …?’ he choked, raising his head dazedly. ‘Clare, are you—were you—’

  ‘Yes!’ she groaned, rigid with fear and pain.

  He buried his face in her throat. ‘God, Clare, I’m sorry,’ he moaned. ‘But it’s too late now, too late …’

  When it was all over Clare turned on her side, her back towards Rourke. He lay on his back, his breathing still ragged, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

  ‘You should have told me,’ he finally spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ she shuddered.

  ‘You shouldn’t have deceived me in that way.’ His voice was harsh.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Clare—’ He turned, putting his hand on her arm.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ She flinched away from him.

  ‘All right, I won’t,’ he sighed, and the bed dipped slightly as he moved away from her. ‘Sleep now. We’ll talk in the morning.’

  Surprisingly she did sleep, the tears drying on her cheeks as she slept. She woke to feel a warm, soft wall beneath her cheek, a tattoo tapping in her head. She blinked to clear her head, realising that the soft wall was Rourke’s chest, the tattoo his heartbeat. She flinched away from him as she saw his eyes glittering down at her in the half-light of early morning.

  ‘No, Clare,’ he said firmly, refusing to let her move away. ‘I’ve been waiting all night for you to wake up. Last time it was—’

  ‘Last time?’ she stared at him in panic.

  ‘Yes.’ He rolled over, pinning her to the bed beneath him. ‘I didn’t know—You should have told me you were a virgin. I would have been gentle with you—as I’m going to be this time.’

  ‘No!’ She began fighting him again, pushing him, scratching him, kicking him, anything to stop that painful invasion of her body for a second time.

  ‘Clare!’ He pinned both her arms above her head with one of his. ‘Clare, you have to let me. I can’t let it end like this—’

  ‘It’s already over,’ she spat the words at him. ‘It was over the minute you raped me.’

  Rourke shook his head, very pale in dawn’s morning light. ‘It wasn’t rape, Clare—’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ her eyes flashed pure gold. ‘I remember it differently.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘I’m trying not to remember it at all,’ he groaned, his eyes opening. ‘Trust me, Clare. This time trust me.’

  She stopped fighting and looked up at him pleadingly. ‘I want to. But—’

  ‘It will be all right.’ He cupped either side of her face, gently kissing her eyes, her mouth. ‘I’ll make it all right.’

  And he did. He was very patient with her, this time giving her no chance to be frightened, and when the pleasure came it was all the deeper for being unexpected. Her whole body felt as if it were bathed in a pleasurable glow, tears gently falling.

  As she looked at him with tear-wet cheeks she knew that she still loved this man, last night forgotten in this morning’s blaze of pleasure. It had been beautiful, wonderful—she couldn’t begin to describe the ecstacy Rourke had given her with his gentleness.

  But he was moving away from her and pulling on his clothes, his expression harsh.

  Clare struggled to sit up. ‘Rourke …?’ she frowned as he buttoned his shirt, thrusting it into his denims.

  He didn’t even look at her. ‘It’s after six,’ he said abruptly. ‘I have to get to work.’

  ‘But, Rourke—’

  ‘Let yourself out when you’re ready,’ he continued coldly, pulling on a leather jacket. ‘The door is self-locking, and I have the key.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘Rourke, are you leaving?’

  ‘I just told you,’ he shot her an impatient look, ’I have to get to work.’

  Clare licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t think there would be any point in that,’ he said harshly.

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean it’s over,’ he rasped. ‘It should never have begun. There’s some money on the dressing-table, take a taxi home.’

  ‘Rourke …!’ He didn’t even hear her plea for him to stop, and the front door closed with a slam seconds later.

  She looked at the money he had left, a hundred dollars in five twenties, just as if—as if—Oh God, she wanted to die!

  She sobbed into the pillow. Her mother had been right, Rourke had taken what he wanted, had even left her money for it, and now he wasn’t interested. Oh, she had been a fool, such a fool!

  She got up and dressed, leaving immediately, the money still where he had left it. She never wanted to see Rourke or the beach-house again as long as she lived; she used her own money to get home.

  By the time her mother returned late in the afternoon Clare was pale but composed, never wanting her mother to know how right she had been to warn her against Rourke.

  It was as if their argument before her mother left had never happened, her mother seeming confident that she had kept her promise not to see Rourke. If only she had! She had known a few moments’ pleasure in Rourke’s arms, and now it seemed she would spend a lifetime of unhappiness without him.

  Gene telephoned later that afternoon, and despite her wish to bury herself in a hole an
d die Clare knew she couldn’t do that. Rourke had kicked her out of his life as if she were some cheap little whore he had picked up for the night. He hadn’t been able to take the knock to his ego when she had only felt pain at his lovemaking, so he had put her through the further humiliation of making her enjoy it, of giving her ecstasy. She would never forget that final humiliation.

  And so she accepted Gene’s invitation to go out to dinner with him, feeling somewhat guilty about her neglect of him the last two weeks. He had called her several times, and each time she had refused, having a previously arranged date with Rourke.

  ‘Rourke out of the picture now?’ he quirked a questioning eyebrow at her as they ate dinner.

  Clare was only picking at her food, mainly pushing it around her plate in a show of eating. She looked up sharply. ‘Rourke?’ she echoed.

  He smiled. ‘Don’t try that big innocent-eyed act with me. It might work with your mother, but I know you’ve been seeing Rourke while she’s been away.’

  ‘I—How?’

  Gene shrugged. ‘I have ways.’

  She gave a wan smile. ‘You sound like part of the C.I.A.!’

  Gene gave a soft chuckle. ‘Believe me, that’s almost what the gossip around here is like.’

  They were seated in an ocean-side restaurant, but Clare had no appetite for the seafood, just the sound of the ocean brought back painful and humiliating memories of last night. If only Rourke hadn’t completely subjugated her, made love to her the second time, she would at least have her pride to console her now.

  But she had nothing, only the knowledge that she still loved Rourke—and after paying for a night with her he didn’t even think her worth seeing again.

  ‘I think I’d like to leave now, Gene,’ she told him jerkily. ‘I—I have a headache,’ she invented.

  ‘Okay,’ he shrugged acceptance. ‘Would you like to go for a drive?’ he asked once they were outside. ‘It would help clear your head.’

  She would like to go home, but it was only ten-thirty, and if she returned home this early her mother would want to know the reason why. ‘Lovely,’ she smiled agreement.

  She didn’t talk at all on the long drive, didn’t even know where they went, all she knew was that it was twelve o’clock by the time Gene finally stopped his car outside her home.

  ‘Give it time, Clare,’ he advised softly as she got out of the car.

  She bit her bottom lip painfully. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You know,’ he contradicted gently. ‘And you aren’t the first woman to have loved unwisely.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘I don’t love Rourke!’ she snapped.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No!’ She turned towards the house.

  ‘I’ll call you, Clare,’ Gene called after her.

  ‘Okay,’ she accepted shakily, just wanting to get to the privacy of her room and sob her heart out.

  But first she had to say goodnight to her mother. It was a nightly ritual when she had been out for the evening, discussing it with her mother when she got home. Tonight she intended cutting that chat short.

  She tapped lightly on the bedroom door, feeling the handle turn before she could open it herself.

  ‘Clare!’ Her mother looked flustered, pulling her négligé about her, the black lacy garment suiting her colouring. ‘I—er—I wasn’t expecting you home yet.’

  She frowned at her mother’s agitation. ‘I just came to say goodnight—’ she broke off as she saw the dark head lying on one of the pillows in her mother’s huge double bed, the black curls achingly familiar to her. ‘Rourke …’ she choked. ‘My God, Rourke and—and you?’ she looked accusingly at her mother.

  Her mother came completely out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. ‘Don’t make so much noise, dear, you’ll wake him. He’s had such a hard day at the studio.’

  Clare felt sick, unable to believe what was happening. ‘You and Rourke?’ she repeated dazedly.

  ‘Well, of course Rourke and I,’ her mother confirmed impatiently. ‘I thought you knew that.’

  ‘No …’ Was she going mad or was this really happening? It was like some horrendous nightmare! Rourke and her mother!

  ‘Why do you think I warned you to stay away from him?’ her mother derided.

  ‘I thought you were worried about me,’ Clare choked.

  ‘I was, darling,’ Carlene smiled, her auburn hair ruffled prettily about her face. ‘Rourke is such a rogue, he can’t resist trying to seduce every woman he meets.’

  Anger burned deep within her, both at her mother and Rourke. ‘Are you aware of the fact that he seduced me?’ she asked tightly.

  ‘He made a full confession,’ her mother gave an affectionate laugh. ‘Well, don’t look so upset, Clare. I did warn you, and every girl has to start somewhere. At least you were taught by an expert.’

  ‘And you should know,’ she muttered.

  ‘He’s a very good lover, isn’t he, Clare?’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’ she choked.

  ‘What else is there?’ her mother shrugged. ‘I think you should get to bed now, darling, it’s very late. And don’t disturb us in the morning, Rourke doesn’t have to go to work tomorrow, so he can lie in if he wants to.’ Her expression seemed to say he would want to, and not with the intention of sleeping either!

  Clare didn’t say another word, but turned on her heel and walked to her room. She had packed her suitcases and left within half an hour—and she hadn’t seen either her mother or Rourke again until today.

  Five years, five long years, and she could still remember every detail, every look, every touch. Not even Harvey, the man she was going to marry, had blotted out the memory of Rourke.

  Oh God, Harvey! She had forgotten all about him during the last few hours, the past enwrapping her like a dark ominous cloud.

  But it was over now. She had relived it, and by reliving it she had rekindled her active dislike and disgust of Rourke. When she had got to England she had hated him with a passion, but as she got on with living her life that hate had faded to the background. Now it was back with a vengeance. She hated him and he couldn’t touch her now, she wouldn’t let him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE was calm now, and calmly she put in a call to Harvey, reminding him of their dinner date in her room.

  ‘What time shall I be there?’

  His unmistakable eagerness was the boost she needed to her dented confidence. ‘Whenever you like,’ she invited warmly.

  ‘Now?’ he asked huskily.

  Clare laughed softly. ‘If you want.’

  ‘Did you rest yet?’ he asked concernedly.

  ‘Er—For a while,’ she invented, remembering the excuse she had given Rourke for her lateness this afternoon. Not that she thought Harvey and Rourke were likely to compare notes, the two men total opposites, but she could no more tell Harvey the real reason for her lateness than she could Rourke. ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ she said briskly. ‘Can you give me half an hour to shower and change?’

  ‘But of course, darling,’ he instantly agreed. ‘But don’t go to any trouble on my account, you know you always look beautiful to me.’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said with sincerity. ‘That’s a really sweet thing to say.’

  ‘It happens to be true,’ he assured her softly.

  She knew it, knew that to Harvey she was perfect. He had no idea of the blemish in her past, believing her to be an innocent. Rourke had said Harvey would know he wasn’t the first with her, something that hadn’t even occurred to her, so perhaps she owed it to Harvey to tell him the truth before they were married. Oh, not the name of the man involved, she could never tell anyone that, but the fact that there had been one other man in her life. Yes, perhaps she owed him that.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Harvey,’ she said warmly.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  She dressed with care, freshly showered, her hair newly washed,
straight and golden to just below her shoulders. She wore plum-coloured velvet trousers and a cream lace Victorian-style blouse tucked neatly in at the waist. She looked cool and confident, the way Harvey liked her to look.

  Her kiss was possessive when he arrived exactly half an hour later, casually dressed himself in black fitted trousers and a white shirt, the collar of the latter turned back over his black velvet jacket. He looked very handsome, and Clare’s heart warmed to him, as she returned his kiss with a warmth that made his draw back in surprise.

  ‘Clare?’ he frowned his puzzlement.

  She smiled at him, almost on a level with his six feet in her high-heeled sandals. ‘I missed you,’ she said throatily.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed softly at his surprise.

  Harvey’s arms tightened about her waist. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I thought so,’ she nodded.

  His eyes darkened to a deep blue as he lowered his head to once more claim her lips, kissing her long and deeply.

  She enjoyed Harvey’s kisses, felt protected in his company, and yet she would be a fool if she didn’t know that rockets didn’t go off in her head when he kissed her, that she didn’t melt in his arms when he touched her. But she also knew there was more to marriage than having a nerve-shattering lover for a husband. She respected Harvey, more than she could ever respect Rourke. She was confident she would make Harvey a good wife.

  He seemed pleased by her reaction, his arm about her shoulders as they sat together on the sofa. ‘Hungry?’ he asked teasingly.

  She wasn’t, but she was going to need all her strength to get through making this film. Checking the schedule she had found that she was on the set almost every day, and that meant every day in Rourke’s company.

  ‘Starving!’ she exaggerated.

  She curled up next to him as he ordered their dinner to be sent to the suite, feeling relaxed for the first time today.

  ‘So, what do you think of Somerville?’ Harvey asked the one question guaranteed to bring back her tension.