by Lynne Graham
‘I’ll take the chair downstairs now,’ he told her as he yanked up the zip on his jeans with a fluid twist of his lean hips.
‘What…?’ It was a dulled whisper of incomprehension. Molly was in too much turmoil to be able to reason with any clarity.
Sholto slid his arms into a silk shirt, buttoned it with deft fingers and tugged on a black sweater. Then he strolled to the end of the bed and curved lean, strong hands round the omate footboard. He surveyed her rigid figure in the centre of the tangled bedding, his attention lingering on her wildly mussed hair, dazed eyes and swollen pink mouth. ‘Dio…I’ve waited a long time to see you like this,’ he confided softly.
This time Molly felt his cold menace. It was like the diamond-bright glitter of icy snow crystals freezing her shrinking flesh.
‘And you made it so damned easy for me, I should be ashamed of myself for taking advantage of a trusting virgin…but I’m not ashamed,’ Sholto asserted without a flicker of conscience as he watched her face slowly drain of colour. ‘I paid for that pleasure four years ago when I married you. Do you actually recall that wedding ceremony, Molly? Do you even remember the promises you made then? And do you also recall packing your bags that same night and running home to hide behind your parents?’
Molly was shaking, still so much in shock at what she had allowed to happen between them that she could barely credit that there could be even worse to come. ‘A-are you saying,’ she framed jerkily. ‘th-that you deliberately chose to make love to me?’
‘Lovemaking is what you would have had on our wedding night,’ Sholto responded with sardonic bite. ‘Tonight you had sex.’
Cringing from that demeaning description of their intimacy and in no state to guard her speech, Molly muttered shakily, ‘I thought you got carried away…like I did.’
An unexpected and very faint suggestion of colour briefly accentuated the slant of Sholto’s hard cheekbones but a cynical black brow flared. ‘Do you really think that’s likely?’
A deep dark flush scored her cheeks. She hunched her shoulders over her raised knees, her stomach churning. How could she have imagined for one moment that Sholto could have been responding to her non-existent sex appeal? And, of course, a male of his experience didn’t simply surrender to temptation and lose control like an impetuous, unthinking teenager. But the mere idea that Sholto had climbed with cold-blooded calculation into the bed for the express and sole purpose of depriving her of her virginity made Molly feel sick and incredibly degraded.
‘I don’t understand,’ she confessed unevenly, clasping her trembling hands round her knees, not wanting to understand but knowing that she needed to know why, why and on what possible grounds Sholto should have decided that she deserved such a retribution.
She watched his long, beautifully shaped fingers flex on the footboard, the knuckles briefly showing the white of bone through the brown skin. ‘I find it incredible that you shouldn’t understand,’ he admitted, his Italian accent roughening his vowel sounds. ‘Now where do I start? Perhaps the desire for revenge was born when I found myself being threatened by the police for trying to approach my runaway wife.’
‘The police?’ she echoed, her head shooting up again in astonishment.
‘Your stepfather called them. I was warned off for causing a public disturbance. Now I don’t believe it was my fault that the paparazzi were encamped outside your parents’ house or that they went crazy when I arrived… but somehow I received the blame.’ The chill of his accusing appraisal, the hardening of his strong facial bones told her how outraged he had been by the experience.
Molly had known about that visit he had made but she hadn’t known about the interference of the police. Dismay on his behalf briefly assailed her. No, that hadn’t been fair but physical force wouldn’t have persuaded her to see him then and, in any case, she hadn’t been staying with her parents at the time. She had known better than to turn to her stepfather or her mother for sympathy when her marriage had gone so horrendously and publicly wrong.
‘The desire for revenge might well have died a natural death once I came to the conclusion that I had had a lucky escape,’ Sholto continued with brutal candour. ‘But it was what you did to my cousin, Pandora, that I could never forgive or forget’
‘Pandora?’ Molly breathed in a sick undertone, barely able to get her vocal cords round that name.
‘The Press tore her apart. She was tied to the stake by the tabloids and burned like a witch. People cut her dead; friends stopped calling. She was even spat at in the street,’ Sholto recited grittily. ‘Pandora, the man-hungry, promiscuous bitch, who supposedly stole the groom from Molly, the poor martyred little bride…that’s how she was portrayed. And why did that happen? Because you told a bunch of filthy lies to a journalist!’
‘I didn’t!’ Molly protested, a choking sob building in her throat, but she turned her head away even as she said it. She hadn’t been the one to do the talking but she knew who had. Outraged on her behalf, Jenna, her then best friend, had passed on her indiscreet confidences about Molly and Sholto to an eager reporter. Molly hadn’t given Jenna permission to do that, nor would she have, but she could not deny that at the time she had experienced a bitter satisfaction when Pandora was vilified by the Press for her role in the break-up of their marriage.
‘You let loose the whole media circus,’ Sholto condemned, swinging restively away from the bed.
‘No, you did that,’ Molly contradicted him, her voice low and tremulous as she bowed her pounding head over her knees. ‘You did that when you were photographed leaving Pandora’s apartment at dawn the day after our wedding.’
‘You were my wife. I had the right to expect some degree of trust and loyalty from you,’ Sholto drawled with chilling bite from the fireplace.
She could barely absorb what he was telling her because he had utterly devastated her with the cruel reality of what had lain behind his seduction. Molly had never really accepted that Sholto could be as ruthless as he had always been painted and only now did she appreciate that in the years since the annulment she had learnt to partially excuse him for the terrible pain he had caused her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had begun to believe that he might well have married her in a desperate, possibly even praiseworthy attempt to break off his relationship with Pandora, but that he had ultimately found himself unable to sustain such a deception when Pandora had refused to let go.
‘You got what you deserved,’ she murmured painfully ‘Exactly what you deserved. I used to think that maybe you couldn’t help yourself and now you’ve taught me differently. I did trust you and that was stupid but I would rather go through life being stupid than become a cold, unfeeling—’
‘Dio…never, ever unfeeling,’ Sholto interposed with silken emphasis from the door. ‘But revenge is a dish best eaten cold and I really could not stomach the idea of you marrying Donald and producing a host of little portly, pigeon-toed children. What did that clod do to deserve my wedding night? Well, if he takes you now, cara, let him do so knowing that you were mine first!’
Molly shuddered with appalled distaste. Sholto gazed back at her, golden eyes ablaze with challenge. He was quite unashamed of the primitive sentiments he had just expressed. And that was yet another revelation to Molly. Four years ago, she had married an unprincipled savage without knowing it, indeed had fondly believed that Sholto was the very last word in laid-back cool and control.
As the door closed she stared into the smouldering heart of the fire, conscious of the shadows now gathering in the corners. The flames had died down like the counterfeit passion and soon there would be nothing left but ashes. Sholto was a prince of deception and he had run rings round her with his sexual charisma. He had done it in the name of revenge and suddenly Molly was desperately grateful that she did not love Donald and that he did not love her.
Donald would be disappointed but not hurt when she returned his ring. He had only proposed at the weekend and he had urged her to think very,
very carefully before she gave him her final answer. She had lain awake last night and then had put on the ring when she got up, resolving to tell Donald of her decision when she returned from this trip. But that now seemed a lifetime ago and Sholto had just smashed what she might have had with Donald. She was deeply ashamed of her own physical weakness. A woman who could so easily and foolishly succumb to the sexual allure of one man had no business at all even considering a serious relationship with another.
A cheap one-night stand. That was what she had made of herself. He had even dared to censure her for what Pandora had suffered! But then, albeit unwittingly, she had attacked and hurt the woman he loved. Indeed, tonight Sholto had taught her what real hatred was and it was not the weak illusion that she had hidden behind to conserve her own pride. But she still found it incredible that Sholto could blame her for their broken marriage, could question her loyalty and trust. For, hysterical or not on their wedding night, she had made her feelings quite clear…
‘If you go to her, I won’t be here when you come back!’ she had told him, shooting the last bolt on her pride with that ultimatum because she had not been able to credit, had not been able to believe until he’d actually walked out the door that any male would leave a sobbing and already distraught bride to go to another woman on his wedding night.
And Sholto had made his choice. Indeed, Sholto had made his choice without hesitation. If he had come in search of her afterwards…well, it had already been too late. When Molly had seen that photo of him emerging from Pandora’s apartment block at dawn, had been faced with the humiliating public proof that he had spent the whole night with his cousin, she had never wanted to set eyes on Sholto again. The agony of that betrayal had been too immense.
And yet they had started out with such apparent promise, she conceded painfully, struggling not to let the memories flood back, for the last thing she needed now was to wallow in the distant past. But somehow the temptation to recall a happier time was irresistible.
She had first met Sholto on one of those hot, still summer afternoons when anything physical felt like an outrageous effort. She had been coasting her bike down the hill, her basket full of eggs from the village shop, when a black sports car had suddenly shot out of a leafy lane in front of her. Her frantic evasive manoeuvres had sent her flying head first into the hedge. When the world had righted itself again, Sholto had got out of the car and was helping her disentangle herself from the brambles, exclaiming about the scratches on her bare arms and apologising.
A languid female voice had drifted from the sports car. ‘Ask her where the Hendersons live…’
Sholto had stridden back to the car and wrenched open the driver’s door. After a terse exchange, a tall, beautiful blonde with a sullen mouth had reluctantly emerged. ‘I’m sorry you came off your bike but you really should’ve been looking where you were going—’
‘You were driving like a bat out of hell,’ Sholto interposed, looking at the blonde with icy reproof.
For an instant Sholto and Pandora stood side by side, and together, as Molly got her first really good look at them, they took her breath away. One so dark and one so fair and both of them possessed of that compelling kind of physical beauty which turned heads and fascinated. Never had Molly been more horribly conscious of a face bare of make-up, hair tangled by the breeze and a faded summer dress that had seen better days.
‘The Hendersons,’ Pandora repeated impatiently.
‘You’ll have to excuse my cousin. Pandora. She’s not very good with strangers,’ Sholto murmured wryly as he extended a lean hand to Molly. ‘Sholto Cristaldi. Where were you heading when we interrupted your journey?’
‘Home.’ Her uncertain gaze collided with shimmering dark golden eyes as she clasped his hand. And he didn’t let go again. He kept on holding her hand, a faint frown-line etched between his aristocratic brows as he stared intently down at her until a deep flush of selfconsciousness coloured her cheeks and she tugged her own fingers clumsily free.
‘Sholto, we’re late!’ Pandora snapped.
‘What’s your name?’ Sholto asked, as if his cousin had neither spoken nor even existed.
‘Molly…Molly Bannister.’
‘Molly,’ he repeated softly, his slow, utterly devastating smile flashing out to leave her weak at the knees. While he crouched down over her bike, examining the bent wheel and the messy debris of broken eggs, she just stared down at him in complete fascination, feverishly, childishly wishing that she had legs that ran all the way up to her armpits, smaller breasts, slimmer hips and last but not least a face that would launch a thousand ships.
In short she would’ve sold her soul at that moment to have the looks to attract a male of Sholto’s calibre. But she had no expectation of such a miracle taking place. Sholto, with his lazy, well-bred drawl, supreme sophistication and exquisitely cut casual clothes, had all the glamour of a film star and seemed just as unattainable.
‘I think the first thing we need to do is replace the eggs,’ Sholto stated with deadly seriousness as he sprang lithely upright again.
‘Give her some money for them, for heaven’s sake!’ Pandora urged incredulously.
‘You don’t need to replace them,’ Molly said hurriedly. ‘And I certainly don’t want any money—’
‘And then we need to take you and your bike home,’ Sholto continued smoothly, as good at ignoring Molly’s objections as he apparently was at blocking out the increasingly angry interruptions coming from his cousin. ‘Where do the Hendersons live?’
‘You go up the hill, through the village and about a hundred yards further on there’s a big set of gates on the left—’
‘We’ll drop my cousin off first…since she’s in such a hurry,’ Sholto murmured softly. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll find it a frightful squeeze in what passes for a back seat in this car.’
‘I don’t need a lift… I wouldn’t dream of it. I can walk home from here!’ she gabbled in a rush, hideously conscious of Pandora’s outraged stare at the idea of her even getting into their car.
But Sholto won out. Taking charge of the steering wheel, he dropped his cousin off at the Hendersons’ Edwardian mansion and ushered Molly into the passenger seat in her stead.
‘Explain that we had an accident and offer my apologies,’ he instructed a frozenly furious Pandora.
Then he drove Molly back to the village shop, replaced the eggs, parked the car beside her damaged bike and proceeded to walk her and the bike home to the vicarage. It was a mile-long walk and she wished it were five miles longer. Sholto and Pandora had been invited to what he called a ‘house party’ at the Hendersons’ and Molly tried to behave as if she regularly met people who just flew in from New York on Concorde and drove down to the country in a flashy sports car for the weekend.
She never expected to see him again after he parted from her at the vicarage gates. She was astonished when his hostess phoned that evening and asked her if she would like to come up and play tennis the following afternoon. Although the Hendersons allowed the annual church fête to be held in the grounds of their impressive home, they were not in the habit of inviting their more humble neighbours to socialise with them.
Molly knew that she could only owe that invitation to Sholto. Indeed, he carelessly confirmed the fact when he came to pick her up. She was less comfortable with the admission when she witnessed the extraordinary deference shown to him by his hosts.
The haughty Hendersons fawned on Sholto as if he were visiting royalty and Sholto did not appear to notice anything amiss in their excessive eagerness to please. That he was accustomed to that sort of attention was obvious but his manners were faultless and that day Molly was blissfully ignorant both of Sholto’s immense wealth and of the way that same wealth could affect other people.
It was far too hot for tennis but the heat didn’t bother Sholto, so nobody dared to complain. Molly ran herself into the ground during a very athletic game of mixed doubles and thoroughly enjoyed herself until
she saw her reflection in a window afterwards and cringed at the sight of her wet hair, shiny nose and hot cheeks. Sholto paused behind her, even then able to read her like a book. ‘You look gorgeous, cara. Women who think of nothing but their appearance are very poor company.’
Cousin Pandora spent the afternoon sitting cool as a cucumber on the sidelines and flirting like mad with two different men. She barely looked at Molly but Molly had already realised that Pandora had little time for her own sex. Only the day before she had seen Sholto treat Pandora like a spoilt and wilful kid sister. At that stage, she didn’t see the other woman as even a cloud on her horizon…and she was utterly overwhelmed by Sholto’s apparent interest in her…
Molly woke with a start. The events of the previous night flooded back and she could not believe that she had actually slept. It was already after ten. Scrambling out of bed, she pulled back the curtains. Some time during the night she had heard driving rain lash the window. It was no longer raining and the snow had gone as quickly as it had come.
The skirt and sweater which she had left downstairs now lay on the chair, and with them a new pair of black tights. Where had Sholto got the tights from? She recalled the shop at the garage where she had stopped for petrol the night before. She stiffened at the awareness that he had entered the room while she slept but she was grateful not to be forced to go downstairs in his clothes.
Crossing the landing to the bathroom, she ran a shallow bath. She told herself that it was her imagination telling her that she could still smell Sholto on her skin. Imagination and guilt, she reflected painfully, lathering herself with soap and wishing she could as easily wash away the incredibly intimate ache she could still feel, the starkly unavoidable reminder of his possession.
Suddenly she froze in dismay. Had he taken any precautions? Had he protected her…wasn’t that the expression? As quickly she scolded herself for her naive attack of panic. Of course Sholto would’ve ensured that his calculated seduction didn’t result in a pregnancy. Obviously that would be the very last thing he would’ve risked. That she didn’t recall any evidence of the fact meant nothing. Her teeth gritted. Wantonly and mindlessly lost in the grip of intense physical excitement, she had been far beyond such powers of common sense and observation.
