Night Heat

by Anne Mather

  ‘Damn,’ she muttered, recovering her balance, and limping to the archway that divided the two rooms, she used the pillar to support her weight as she massaged her ankle.

  It was inconceivable that she shouldn’t allow herself to glance into Lincoln’s bedroom then. She would not have been human had she not been curious, and as she had come so far …

  Setting her injured foot back on the floor, she gazed around the spacious apartment. As in the sitting room, the walls were once again hung with Italian silk, this time in a more restful shade of amethyst. There were a pair of matching armchairs, a writing desk and a glass-topped table, and an enormously big colonial fourposter, spread with a soft satin coverlet. The room was comfortable, without being feminine, the pale cream carpet underfoot the most obvious touch of luxury.

  The temptation to feel the softness of the carpet beneath her bare foot was irresistible, and easing off her sandal, she allowed her toes to curl into its silk pile. There was something almost sensual in that tentative contact, and she was so absorbed with what she was doing, she didn’t notice that the water had stopped running. The first intimation she had was when the door to the adjoining bathroom opened, and she froze ignominiously when Lincoln came out.

  She was half afraid he might be naked, but he wasn’t. He was in the process of tying the cord of a wine-coloured dressing gown, and judging by the way it clung to his damp flesh, she suspected it must be silk, too.

  He paused for a moment when he saw her, his gaze taking in the hastily withdrawn foot, and the sandal which refused to slide back on to it. Then, crossing his arms, he said flatly: ‘Not so indifferent, after all, hmm?’

  Sara sighed. ‘What can I say? I was curious. You were in the shower, and——’

  ‘—and you thought you’d have a look around.’

  ‘I wasn’t nosing.’

  ‘I never said you were.’

  ‘No.’ She conceded that was true. ‘I—it’s a beautiful house. You must be proud of it.’

  ‘Proud?’ His brows arched. ‘I should be, perhaps, but I’m not. This was Michelle’s father’s house. I can’t forget that.’

  ‘Do you want to?’ It seemed natural to ask him.

  Lincoln shrugged. ‘I had no animosity towards the old man, only towards his daughter. But perhaps they were too closely allied.’ He broke off, as if just realising to whom he was speaking. ‘Anyway, you’re not interested in my hang-ups. I suppose you expect an apology.’

  ‘An apology?’ For a moment, Sara was confused. Then she bent her head. ‘If you mean about—about what happened a couple of weeks ago, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What else do you think I meant?’ he demanded, and she thought how incongruous it was they should be standing talking here, in the bedroom, as if it was quite acceptable to do so.

  ‘I—nothing.’ She glanced behind her. ‘Shouldn’t we go into the other room?’

  He ignored her request, taking up a silver-backed brush from the bureau and using it to smooth the unruly tangle of his wet hair. Because they were wet, the ends of his hair overlapped the collar of his dressing gown, causing a darkening dampness of the cloth. It was an incredibly personal thing to do, implying an intimacy which they did not share, but Sara couldn’t help watching him, and feeling an involuntary reaction.

  ‘Tell me about Jeff,’ he said, playing with the brush in his hands. ‘Haswell seems to think you’re achieving some kind of miracle. I’d like you to tell me how you’re doing it.’

  Sara swallowed. ‘I don’t do anything much,’ she murmured deprecatingly. ‘We talk, that’s all. About anything and everything.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Well …’ she hesitated. ‘It wasn’t so easy in the beginning, of course. He—Jeff, that is—he suspected I was some kind of doctor; a psychiatrist, I think. When I told him I used to be a dancer, I don’t think he believed me. Then, when he did, he thought I’d come to patronise him.

  ‘Yes, Jeff would think that.’ Lincoln frowned. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s not much more to tell. I suppose I had to get him to trust me. I think he does—or did! When I learned what he’d been doing, I was absolutely amazed.’

  ‘But flattered, surely. He must think something about you to try and prove himself to you.’

  Sara felt the rush of colour to her cheeks. It was no use. With this man, she had no defence.

  ‘I think he’s begun to believe there is a life to be lived outside the four walls of his bedroom,’ she offered carefully. ‘But watching television could have done that.’

  Lincoln shook his head, dropping the brush back on to its tray. ‘Do you know how often I’ve tried to get him to have a television in his room?’ he demanded. ‘He wouldn’t even listen to me. Now I go away, and not only is there a television, but a video recorder, too.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I hope—I hope his fall hasn’t changed his mind.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him since it happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, Keating stopped you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, he did say Jeff didn’t want to see me,’ she admitted honestly. ‘Apparently he blames me for what happened.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Lincoln nodded. ‘But you don’t intend to let that deter you.’

  ‘Not if Doctor Haswell gives me his support. Oh,’ she made a rueful gesture, ‘and you, of course.’ But as she said this, she remembered what Rebecca had said, and she wondered if this was his way of getting round to that particular obstacle.

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought my support would mean that much to you,’ he ventured quietly. ‘After what happened between us, I wouldn’t blame you if you had little faith in my judgment.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sara cast another rueful glance over her shoulder, realising that in replacing his hairbrush on the bureau, he had lessened the distance between them. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ He was patient with her. ‘I shouldn’t have touched you—we both know that. All I can say in mitigation is that somehow it got out of hand. After the way I had accused you of—well, provocation, it was pretty pitiful that I should be the one to take advantage of you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ve told you, it doesn’t matter,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘I’ve—forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Have you?’ His tone was dry. ‘How convenient for you.’

  Sara drew another breath. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  But when she bent to restore her sandal to her foot, he came towards her, so that when she straightened, there was barely a yard between them. ‘Don’t take any notice of what Rebecca may say,’ he added, removing a long tawny hair from the collar of her shirt and stretching it between his fingers. ‘She—well, she can be vicious.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sara’s heart was beating so fast, she had difficulty in saying anything.

  ‘Yes.’ Lincoln looked down at the silky strand he was holding and nodded. ‘As you noticed, she came to the den earlier.’

  Sara’s tongue circled her dry lips. ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you know what she said?’

  She shrugged. ‘I can guess.’

  ‘You’d probably be right.’ He looked at her and his eyes were disturbingly intent. ‘It seems Rebecca resents your being here. Your success with Jeff notwithstanding, I think she’d do almost anything to force you to leave. Including telling me what you think of the relationship she has with me.’

  She gasped. ‘I didn’t——’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Discuss your relationship with Miss Steinbeck.’ Sara’s face burned. ‘I was rude, but not about that. She—well, she implied some things about Jeff, and I retaliated, that’s all.’

  ‘What things?’

  She looked away. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Oh—well, it was just something about him being—attracted to me. It was a lot of nonsense.’

  The hair snapped and Lincoln droppe
d it on to the carpet at their feet. ‘I see.’ He frowned. ‘But that’s not so outrageous, surely. I dare say Jeff is attracted to you.’

  Sara sighed. ‘It was the way she said it.’

  ‘Ah.’ He inclined his head. ‘Rebecca can be a little—outspoken at times.’

  Sara forced a tight smile. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Have I upset you?’

  ‘No …’

  His face darkened. ‘It seems I have. Look,’ he paused to take a breath, ‘I’ll wait and leave in the morning. That way, I can take Rebecca back with me. Okay?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’ All she wished was that the interview was over. ‘If that’s all …’

  ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake!’ He expelled his breath heavily. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Me?’ She stared at him blankly. ‘I can’t tell you what to do. If you want to take Miss Steinbeck back with you, then that’s your—your prerogative.’

  ‘My prerogative!’ She could feel his eyes boring into her. ‘Such a long word to imply something entirely different. What do you really think of our relationship, I wonder? Has Grant been regaling you with the saga of the de Veres and the Kordas?’

  Her guilty expression was answer enough, and Lincoln’s lips twisted. ‘So now you know my assertion about being a married man was a defensive mechanism.’

  ‘Mr Korda——’

  ‘Link!’

  ‘Mr Korda— I don’t think we should be having this conversation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ She looked at him imploringly, and then wished she hadn’t. His eyes were too shrewd; too watchful; too observant; too distractingly dangerous to her peace of mind. ‘Please—I should be going——’

  ‘Don’t you want to know why I lied?’

  ‘Why you lied?’ Sara swallowed convulsively. This was getting out of hand. ‘I—don’t think that’s necessary.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’d like to tell you.’

  ‘Mr Korda——’

  ‘It’s quite simple really,’ he said, giving her a rueful smile. It was the first time he had smiled at her without sarcasm, and her heart flipped a beat. ‘After Michelle and I separated, I got involved in a series of—what shall I call them?—unfortunate situations. They were my indiscretions, of course. I’m not blaming anyone else. The truth is, I went a little wild, and there are always women willing—Anyway, since I learned some sense, it’s become second nature to me to keep most members of your sex at arm’s length, and if that sounds abominably conceited—well, it’s not meant to.’

  Sara managed to nod. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ he went on, just when she was beginning to breathe again, ‘that’s no excuse for the way I treated you. Even if I felt I had some provocation.’ His eyes darkened perceptibly. ‘Were you Antony’s mistress?’

  She took an involuntary step backward, and came up against the solid curve of the archway. ‘Antony’s mistress?’ she echoed, foolishly, wincing as the post dug into her spine. For a moment, she couldn’t remember who ‘Antony’ was. Then, as she reminded herself that he meant Tony, his expression changed.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself?’ he exclaimed, coming towards her as she endeavoured to step away from the jamb, and her involuntary denial was silenced by the searching gentleness of his hands. Half turning her head away from him, he probed the small of her back with tender fingers, finding the sore spot and massaging it expertly.

  ‘Better?’ he asked, when she couldn’t suppress the sigh of pure relief that escaped her lips, and she nodded.

  ‘Much better,’ she admitted, and his hands stilled abruptly as she looked up into his face.

  She was held, sideways, between his hands, and although she knew she ought to move away from him, she couldn’t. Her gaze was caught and held by the sudden penetration of his, and almost imperceptibly the mood changed.

  His eyes moved from her face, down the slender column of her throat to the dusky hollow just visible below the lapels of her shirt. Because he was holding her sideways, he could look down the vee of her shirt, and her flesh tingled warmly beneath that pervasive appraisal. She knew a quite incredible desire to feel his hands all over her body, and her skin felt almost sensitized with the urgency of that need.

  ‘You don’t hurt anywhere else, do you?’ he asked, noticing the sudden spasm that crossed her face, and she shook her head.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ With unhurried deliberation, his hand moved from her waist in front, up over the tense frame of her ribs, to the swelling curve of her breasts. ‘You don’t hurt here—or here,’ he murmured, his palm caressing each swollen bud in turn, and then sliding inside the neckline of her shirt to find the silken softness of her flesh.

  ‘Oh——’ Her breath caught in her throat at the sensuous exploration of his hands, and his breathing quickened in concert, as he bent his head towards her. ‘No,’ she protested, turning her head away, but he wasn’t listening to her. Whatever thought had been in his mind when he asked her about his brother, her clumsy stumbling had erased it. Touching her had aroused other feelings, and she was as guilty as he was for not getting out of here while she could.

  His mouth at the curve of her jawline was incredibly sensual, his tongue touching her skin, letting her feel its heat and its wetness. She wanted his tongue in her mouth, she thought dizzily. She wanted to wind her arms around his neck, and press herself close against him; so close he could feel her heart beating, so close she could feel his stirring maleness between them.

  ‘Oh, God, Sara,’ he muttered, feeling her weakening resistance, and sliding his arm around her waist, he pulled her fully against him.

  His mouth sought hers then, satisfying that alien part of herself that had wanted this to happen, while his hand at the back of her head tore impatiently at the coronet of braids that confined her hair. With an urgency that bordered on violence, he loosened the pins and threaded his powerful fingers through its length, winding its brilliance around her neck and delighting in the intimacy.

  ‘I want you,’ he muttered, burying his face in its silken curtain, and she was too inflamed to do anything but acquiesce. She wanted him, too, she thought incredulously, and nothing else seemed of half so much importance.

  The sound of the outer door to Lincoln’s apartments opening and closing did not immediately register. Lincoln was kissing her, his hands on her hips were eliciting a quite uncontrollable response to his arousal, and all outside influences had ceased to exist. She was lost in a world where nothing mattered but that he should go on touching her and caressing her, and devouring her with his lips, and when he abruptly put her from him, she whimpered in dismay.

  ‘Please …’ she breathed, her confused senses still refusing to accept that he had rejected her, and with a groan of impatience, he put a finger to his lips. Then, stepping past her, he went into the sitting room.

  ‘Link?’

  The doubtful enquiry was spoken in Rebecca’s unmistakable tones, and Sara felt a wash of cold sanity sweep over her. Dear God! she thought in agony, as trembling fingers sought to restore her gaping shirt to rights. She had now identified the sound that had echoed in her subconscious. She never thought she would have reason to feel grateful to Rebecca Steinbeck for anything, but she was. And she had been right all along. Lincoln had arranged to see his mistress after his swim. Only she had forestalled him, and now Rebecca had come to find out what was going on.

  She glanced despairingly about her. She was trapped. Unless Lincoln took Rebecca back to her own apartments, they would be coming in here soon, and she would be caught, like a fly in honey. Only she didn’t like her metaphor: more like a fly in a web of deceit, she thought bitterly. And how would Lincoln explain her presence, without resorting to more deception?

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘I HAD to see you—to speak to you before you left,’ Rebecca was saying now, and although Sara couldn’t see them, she could imagine the dark girl winding herself
about him. Her voice was so persuasive, so confident—husky with the urgency of a passion long denied. Sara would have done anything not to listen to it, but she didn’t have much choice.

  Lincoln’s response was less encouraging, however. ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Rebecca,’ he said, and Sara took a shaking breath. How ironic it would be if by involving himself with both, he had successfully alienated either!

  ‘I had to.’ Rebecca’s tone was tearful now, hinting of a different interpretation. ‘I couldn’t bear to let you go away, thinking of me as you do. It’s not my fault I care so much about you. You don’t know what it’s like to——’

  ‘Not now, Rebecca!’ Lincoln sounded distinctly unfriendly. ‘Look, we’ll talk again tomorrow. I’m not leaving until the morning. You can come back with me, if you like.’

  ‘I can?’ There was a pause. ‘Then why can’t we——?’

  ‘No, Rebecca!’

  ‘Why not?’

  Her eagerness was mortifying, and Sara had heard more than enough. If only there was some way she could get out of here, she thought desperately. If only she had the nerve to walk out now and call his bluff, and let Rebecca see what kind of man he was. But, although the sound of Rebecca begging Lincoln to make love to her was anathema, the idea of exposing herself to the other girl’s scorn and ridicule was even more unthinkable. Nevertheless, she refused to listen any longer, and treading silently across the carpet, she opened his bathroom door and stepped inside.

  The atmosphere in the bathroom was still moist and steamy from Lincoln’s shower, although a fan humming softly in the background was doing its best to clear the air. It was a huge bathroom, illuminated by lights concealed below a cornice set up near the ceiling. A large step-in tub and a smoked-glass shower compartment were divided by a collection of ferns and climbing plants with wide, spiky leaves, and misted mirrors threw back her reflection from a dozen different angles.

  There was something intensely personal about being in his bathroom, she realised uneasily. The razor he had evidently used earlier was still lying between the twin hand-basins, and the towels he had soaked in drying were strewn about the floor. The navy robe he had worn after his swim was deposited on the lid of a laundry basket, and as there was no sign of a discarded pair of shorts, she was left to wonder if he had been wearing any.