Red-Hot Lover

by Sarah Holland

  A bird hopped onto the balustrade, trilled sweetly and regarded them both with beady eyes.

  Clara was very still. Jared was determined not to be questioned and that meant she was on the right track. But what lay at the end of the trail? Now that she’d started picking at the Llewellyn subject she was beginning to realise that all his behaviour—from the moment Susie had met Gareth right up until today—could be attributed to the presence of a Welsh family called the Llewellyns. Why hadn’t she picked up on that before? If she had, there might have been a chance of helping him cope with whatever he was going through in that battened-down hatch of a heart. As it was, she had left it too late. The breakfast was due to start at any minute. And Jared was getting worse, not better. Although she hated giving up, she knew it was the only wise course of action. There was only one thing she could do. Let him leave.

  ‘Okay…’ She admitted defeat with forgiving tenderness. ‘I understand. If you really want to leave, then…’ she shrugged ‘…leave.’

  He did a double-take, staring. He took a step towards her. His eyes were haunted. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Darling, I don’t want to see you suffer like this. You obviously can’t bear to be here. I’ve tried everything I can to make the day enjoyable for you, but even I’ve run out of ideas. If you want to go—go.’

  He reached for her, pulled her tenderly into his arms and buried his hot face in her neck. ‘I can’t believe you mean it. You’re the most wonderful woman in the world.’

  She laughed softly and stroked his dark hair. ‘I know, I know! But hurry up, darling. People are arriving. In fact the dining room looks crowded from here.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered deeply and raised his head, love in his eyes as he stared down at her. ‘I’ve behaved so badly today. But if you only knew what a strain it’s been for me. The last few months, weeks, days…’

  ‘You’ve been hiding your real feelings from me all along, haven’t you? Darling, you mustn’t do that. It upsets me and doesn’t help you.’

  ‘I promise not to do it any more. Starting from now…’ His mouth closed over hers in a slow, gentle kiss. Clara gave herself wholeheartedly to his loving embrace, letting her head fall back so that her hat dropped softly to the ground. They both ignored it. Her mouth opened beneath Jared’s and the kiss took fire.

  ‘We’ll go straight home and straight to bed!’ he muttered roughly, and she tensed.

  ‘Darling, I’m not leaving. I didn’t mean to sound as though I was. I just said that you could go if you wanted.’

  His romantic expression slowly hardened. ‘What are you talking about? We’re both going. You can’t stay alone. Are you crazy? Either we both stay or we both leave, and you just said—’

  ‘But I’ll be home soon. I promise. I’ll leave just as soon as the bride’s had her first dance with the groom.’

  ‘No! I’m not leaving you here on your own!’

  ‘But why ever not? What harm—?’

  ‘I just don’t want to know that you’re here with—’ He broke off.

  His face was chalk-white.

  He was staring at the doorway.

  Clara turned her tousled blonde head to follow his stare. A very tall old man stood there, the sun on his well-groomed silver hair and elegant grey morning suit. He had great dignity and noble bearing.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion.’ His voice had a deep Welsh lilt. ‘But I heard voices, see, and thought I ought to warn you. Everybody’s sitting down now. The breakfast’s about to be served. Thought I’d let you know, so you could come in without a grand entrance.’

  The summer breeze lifted strands of black hair from Jared’s forehead as he stared. He was utterly silent. Unmoving. The only clue to his feelings were the chaotic kaleidoscopic lights of his eyes.

  ‘You must be young Jared Blackheath.’ The old man stepped forward. ‘I’m Owain Llewellyn. Do you remember me?’

  Jared released Clara with a swift movement that nearly caught her off balance. ‘How do you do?’ He strode to Llewellyn, extended his hand, shook the old man’s and towered over him like a giant, saying briskly, ‘Pleased to meet you. This is my girlfriend, Clara Maye. Clara!’

  ‘Hello!’ Clara called shyly, bending to pick up her hat and dust it off while Owain Llewellyn continued to shake Jared’s hand with admiration and respect.

  ‘So pleased to meet you,’ the old man was saying, a gruff note in his voice as he looked earnestly at Jared. ‘So very pleased at last to—’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Jared wrenched his hand away as though burnt, raked long fingers through his hair and looked as though he wanted to be a million miles away.

  ‘How do you do?’ Clara rescued him by walking over to shake the old man’s hand instead. ‘We were just snatching a private moment before the celebrations began.’

  ‘Oh, the celebrations could go on for a very long time.’ The bony fingers clasped hers but his old grey eyes were fixed on Jared as he spoke. ‘And how lovely that they should begin like this, two young people, so much in love, ready to move into their first home, a home they—’

  ‘I think we should go in,’ Jared cut in thickly. His hand curled around Clara’s waist and drew her against him as though she were an amulet to ward off danger. ‘Thank you for coming to get us, Mr Llewellyn. I can see the bride sitting down now. It’s time we took our places…’

  Jared steered them into the dining room without giving the old man a chance to reply. Clara could hardly interfere. It was too late for Jared to leave now, too late for another argument, and they had no choice but to take their places at the top table. Owain Llewellyn was close behind them, sadness in his austere face. As he sat down beside Jared, Clara saw Jared’s fist clench on the white tablecloth. She wished she knew why he felt this way.

  The wedding breakfast commenced. Jared spoke to Clara continuously throughout the meal. She couldn’t believe he’d done it, but he had actually turned his back on poor old Mr Llewellyn, forcing him to eat in isolation at the end of the table. She felt sorry for him. But she also felt a great deal of empathy for Jared. His eyes were still so haunted, and lines of strain were now etched at his mouth as he struggled to keep his feelings hidden from all these people, most of whom were strangers, staring at him because of his fame. He ate almost nothing. He drank far too much champagne. When the meal was over and the speeches began, he turned a whiter shade of pale and Clara frowned at him, not understanding why he should be alarmed by them.

  Gareth’s father stood up with the microphone. His deep voice boomed around the room. He was quick, witty and entertaining. Even Jared laughed at one or two jokes. Then the best man stood up and told how Susie had first met Gareth—mistaking him for a dropout because he was asleep on a park bench in torn jeans, having lost his keys and wallet after a wild party.

  ‘Gareth was so used to women chasing him for his money,’ said the best man, to ripples of laughter, ‘that he decided to let Susie carry on believing he was a penniless drop-out. Imagine her shock when she discovered a year later that he was really the heir to the Llewellyn millions!’

  Jared fidgeted restlessly. The best man had finished his speech and Jared’s fingers began scrunching and unscrunching his napkin with nervous tension.

  ‘And now,’ said the best man, ‘Owain Llewellyn, Gareth’s grandfather, would like to say a few words.’

  The old man got to his feet. Jared was ashen. Clara suddenly realised what was going to happen. She suddenly remembered Susie saying, ‘An old house by the sea…’

  ‘As you know,’ said Owain, ‘the Llewellyns are Welshmen, born and bred. Our headquarters are now in London, and many of us live here, but we still have Welsh headquarters, in Cardiff. As many of you know, my old partner, Daffyd, retired last month, which leaves the Cardiff offices without a managing director. There’s only one real choice for the post, I’m sure you’ll all agree—my grandson, Gareth.’

  Everyone clapped.

  ‘But he needs a home to live in wit
h his new bride. And I therefore give him my own property, Rhossana Manor in Rhossana Bay, in the hope that he’ll make it ring with the sounds of love and laughter after so many years of silence.’

  And everything fell into place for Clara as she saw Jared’s eyes close in defeat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TWENTY minutes later Jared walked out of the Ritz. Clara followed, deep in thought. He had not spoken to her since the speech, but then he hadn’t had to. She was hardly stupid, and the point had been glaringly obvious. The only reason it had taken her so long to see it was because she’d had such an enormous emotional investment in this wedding right from the start.

  All her thoughts and feelings had been focused on Susie: Susie’s dress, Susie’s guest list, Susie’s honeymoon. And Jared’s increasing edginess had run along the sidelines. She’d put it down to a fear that she herself would start demanding marriage now that Susie was getting hitched. And perfectly reasonable, too. It had been the logical explanation. Until she’d seen the name on that place setting and thought…does he know this family?

  Evidently he did. Whoever the Llewellyns were to Jared, they came from the same little seaside town where Jared had been born, and they clearly pressed on the secret wound he had kept hidden for years. Not just his secret, either. His mother knew about it. So, apparently, did Owain Llewellyn.

  What else did Owain know? she wondered. He’d come into the gardens calling Jared ‘young Jared Blackheath’. While he was still a dynamic and exciting man, at thirty-seven he could hardly be called ‘young’, which led Clara to believe that Owain had known Jared when he was a child, living in that lost seaside town of his birth. That wasn’t all Owain had said. He’d asked if Jared remembered him, and Clara knew the answer was yes. Jared remembered him only too well. The memory stirred up bitterness and anger, as did the house in Rhossana Bay…

  Jared had that haunted look again as he stood at the kerb waiting for Harrison. Hands thrust in trouser pockets, he avoided looking at Clara. To passers-by he was magnificent—a legend, towering indestructibly in the sun. It was only because Clara knew him so well that she was able to see the frayed and frazzled nerves beneath that charismatic exterior.

  ‘We’ll be home soon, darling.’ She walked to stand beside him.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘You’ll be able to relax then. I’ll make you some coffee, massage those tired shoulders.’

  ‘I’ll need rather more than that,’ he said thickly. Clara’s pulses quickened. He was a superb lover at the best and most romantic of times, but after a tense day he was absolutely mind-blowing.

  The car flashed up to the kerb. He wrenched open the door to let Clara slide in and a second later was in beside her, closing the door, switching the screen button to give them privacy and closing in on her for a passionate kiss.

  It was a way for him to avoid talking. So, for the moment, she let her thoughts slide away as the car swept serenely towards Regent’s Park and linked her arms around his strong neck. There was an urgency to his kiss that was breathtaking. He was driven by necessity now.

  Her body thrilled in anticipation for the lovemaking to come. All her questions could wait. She’d never forgotten a single detail about this man. That wouldn’t change now. He had been the centre of her world since the day she’d first set eyes on him. She remembered the day, the hour, the colour of his tie…

  They had met two and a half years ago, at a party in the Grosvenor House Hotel.

  Clara had just finished her biggest success in television—an eighteen-month contract on Ribble Road—a long-running soap opera set in East London. She’d played Jezebel Whitney, a raven-haired seductress with three lovers, two ex-husbands and a passion for causing trouble. Everyone had hated her. By the time she’d met Jared she had just been murdered. The nation was agog with excitement.

  At that time Clara’s boyfriend had been another actor in Ribble Road. Roger Blake had played one of her lovers, a smooth-talking con-man with blond hair, flashy clothes and an elegant frame. Off-screen he was a likeable young man who had been more of a friend to Clara than anything else. They’d fallen into the habit of seeing each other after a few months and the tabloids had blown the relationship out of all proportion.

  Roger had liked being seen out with Clara because she was so instantly recognisable as Jezebel. She’d dyed her hair jet-black for the part, which had meant she had to wear red lipstick and black eyeliner offscreen, because her normal preference for pretty pastels would have looked wrong with all that dark hair.

  On the night of her farewell party, however, Clara had dyed her hair back to its natural pale blonde… Nobody recognised her. Amused, she danced in Roger’s arms under the spotlight and murmured, ‘Nobody’s taking pictures. They must all wonder who I am.’

  ‘Well, why did you dye it back?’ Roger was annoyed. ‘You’re Jezebel. Not Clara. Nobody’s interested in Clara. Don’t you understand that?’

  ‘I don’t want to be Jezebel for the rest of my days! Playing her on screen was fun but it had its drawbacks in real life. I don’t like being insulted in the supermarket by well-meaning viewers.’

  ‘You’re going to lose all the fame you’ve just built up, Clara. You should have kept your hair black. Don’t you care about your career?’

  ‘I care enough not to get typecast.’

  ‘No danger of that now,’ he drawled, and slunk away from her as the music ended.

  Shocked, Clara watched him just discard her. He obviously didn’t want to know her now that she was no longer the scandalous Jezebel Whitney. And everyone was staring at her now. She felt ridiculous, abandoned in the spotlight. But as she turned to leave the dance floor a strong hand caught her wrist, tugged her gently against a powerful male body. Breathless, she looked up with flashing eyes, about to tell the stranger to get lost. Flashbulbs blinded her. Through a haze she saw blue eyes, a tough, uncompromising face and a firm, sensual mouth.

  ‘Smile!’ drawled the deep male voice. ‘You’re on Candid Camera!’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? Stop it!’ She was being whirled in his arms, still breathless. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘The name’s Blackheath. Jared Blackheath.’

  ‘Am I supposed to know you?’

  ‘No, but I want to know you!’

  Photographers circled them. Clara racked her brains for his identity. So self-assured and devil-may-care—she was convinced she must have seen him before.

  ‘I’ve never seen you on set, Mr Blackheath. Are you playing the Inspector, or something?’

  ‘I’d love to play the Inspector with you, Miss Maye.’

  She felt herself colour with sudden electrifying excitement.

  ‘Oh…!’

  ‘Oh?’ He regarded her with lazy mockery. ‘Is that all you can say? Can’t you talk without a script?’

  ‘I can talk up a storm, and I can slap your arrogant face, too!’

  ‘Wildcat!’ he murmured in her ear. ‘But I came here to meet the murdered seductress and instead found a wholesome innocent. Will the real Clara Maye please stand up?’

  Fuming, she snapped, ‘I’m an actress, Mr Blackheath. That means I’m trained to draw on the darker side of my personality whenever a role calls for it. And we all have a dark side, don’t we? I can see from the look in your eyes that you most certainly have one!’

  His face darkened instantly and he murmured, ‘Clever little thing, aren’t you?’

  His tone made her shiver as the music ended. They remained in each other’s arms. Clara was staring at him as though she had only just seen him.

  ‘Let’s sit and have some champagne together,’ he said deeply. ‘I want to find out what else you can see in my eyes.’

  ‘How about trouble?’ she quipped with an excited smile, and he laughed, then led her off the dance floor while the flashbulbs continued to pop all around them. The press were on the scent of their love affair before it had even begun.

  He did not leave her side for the rest of
the evening.

  Next morning three dozen red roses arrived in a silver basket with a note in powerful black handwriting: ‘I must see you again. Will tonight be too soon? Blackheath.’

  The morning papers arrived and Clara was on the cover of each one. Dancing in Jared Blackheath’s arms had made her famous all over again as a blonde. The twist of fate astonished her. Roger rang to congratulate her, but she was very cool and very uninterested. So much for his disloyal belief that she was finished because of the change in her appearance. But who exactly was this gorgeous man who had saved her from obscurity simply by dancing with her? And why did her heartbeat feel so exquisitely unsteady at the thought of seeing him again? Could this be the beginning of true love?

  It was.

  From then on he bombarded her with calls, visits and kisses. He took her out constantly and conversation flowed like vintage wine between them, so easy and rapid and intimate that she felt there would never be a silence. When silence did come it was so natural, so easy, that she knew their love would last. They became inseparable. His passion was such that she succumbed after only a few weeks. They lived in her bedroom from Saturday night till Wednesday morning, lost in a tidal wave of physical pleasure, coming out only to raid the fridge once every twenty hours when they remembered to eat. When they weren’t making love they were holding hands, sitting up till the early hours talking, sharing secrets, unlocking each other emotionally, mentally and then, as the passion rose again, physically.

  One night Jared said, ‘I want you to move in with me.’

  And she replied shyly, ‘Just be your live-in lover? But I told you how much I’ve always wanted to be married…’

  ‘I’m not the marrying kind.’ He kissed her, regret in his eyes. ‘If I were I would already have proposed to you, because God knows I’m so much in love with you I can’t bear to think of life without you.’