by Jan Colley
Her heart pounded in near panic. If he accosted her, she could claim not to know him—or she could just come clean and tell Adam the truth; that she was persona non grata to her uncle and didn’t have the tiniest chance of setting up a meeting between them.
“But I just want to say a quick hallo to someone,” Vincent insisted loudly to the staunch security man.
Making a decision, and hoping she wouldn’t live to regret it, Jasmine walked up to stand beside Adam and slid her arm around his waist, inside his jacket. Sucked in a breath against the impact of lean, muscled torso, a very appealing male cologne and the peculiar pheromones or hormones that always had her off-kilter with this particular man. Absorbing the jolt to her senses, she bravely waited as he slowly turned his head to her. Yes, cool blonde or not, she had his full attention.
“Sorry,” she said apologetically to his companion. Lifting up on tiptoe, and without removing her hand from his body, she put her lips directly onto his ear. “I think the jet lag has just caught up with me,” she whispered, ensuring her lips caressed his ear with each syllable.
Adam had bowed his head in deference to his greater height. Now he turned his face and looked down into hers. His eyes burned gold, interest and wariness flickering.
Jasmine reached up toward his ear again but because he had turned his head, her cheek brushed his, thrilling her with the contact. “That,” she whispered seductively, “or the champagne.”
He moved as she withdrew, so that his cheek blocked hers from retreat. Triumph, query and a wolfish sort of warning blazed out from the golden depths of his eyes. If there wasn’t so much at stake, she would have run to save herself. The message was clear: Don’t play with me. Or maybe that was just her guilty conscience.
After a second’s hesitation, he became all concern and solitude, making his excuses to the blonde, saying goodbye to John, shaking hands with people as they prepared to go.
And moving toward the wrong staircase. Vincent was still there, of course. She’d learned during their engagement that when he didn’t get his own way, the arguments lasted for days.
“This way.” She tugged on his arm, nodding at the other staircase. “I need to visit the ladies’.”
They veered to the right. “You don’t have to come,” she told him rather half-heartedly once they were at the bottom of the stairs, glancing around fearfully in case His Royal Highness emerged from the sea of people celebrating Christmas Eve. “It’s your big night, I feel guilty.”
She did feel guilty about spoiling his big night, but not too guilty. And she would prefer he didn’t hang around without her in case Vincent bailed him up and asked about her.
No sign of him, though, and no sign that Adam was disposed to let her disappear into the night. There was a nasty moment on the way to the exit when a photographer came from nowhere, his camera up. “The man of the hour. Quick photo for the Out and About magazine?”
Luckily Jasmine was able to melt judiciously into the ladies’ directly beside her, hoping it would not seem ungracious.
Nothing eventuated and soon they were at Adam’s car. “Feeling better?” he asked as she strapped herself in. He started the car but made no effort to put it into gear.
“Much.” She allowed herself to relax a little. It was a close call but the ends justified the means and now they were safe. “I’m sorry about this. I could just take a cab…”
Adam reached over and picked up her hand. “What sort of fiancé would I be if I didn’t look after you?”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to the pulse point on her wrist. Her bones melted as he nibbled and sucked at the sensitive point. Suddenly, Jasmine was in real danger of keeling over and it had nothing to do with jet lag. A warm flush bathed her as she imagined a thousand arrows of fire wove a prickly scarf on the back of her neck. Her skin felt tight and stretched, her insides jumped about nervously while her mouth was as arid as the desert. “Wha-what are you doing?” she asked.
The big motor purred. Adam didn’t answer right away, engrossed in driving her mad with equal parts delight and trepidation. Then he lowered her hand and spoke with the honeyed, seductive tone he’d used before. “Let’s just say I’m getting into character for tomorrow.” He brought her hand to his mouth again, kissing each fingertip.
Just for a moment more she wanted to enjoy this, the desire that raced through her veins, her heart beating a tattoo on her rib cage. Maybe it was jet lag, because Jasmine was a sensible woman. Why else would she seriously consider succumbing to the incredible pull to move closer, drink in the heat coming off him in waves of male scented sensuality? It wasn’t right that this man should have such a monopoly on her innermost desires and be able to exploit them at will.
Summoning every ounce of concentration and willpower, Jasmine stiffened her fingers and tugged until he let go. For good measure, she turned her face to the front, knowing that his strong-boned face, those wicked lips branding her flesh, turned her on unbearably. She’d never missed sex until she’d tasted it with him.
Adam’s laugh was almost inaudible in the hum of the car, but decadently amused. “I enjoy watching you squirm, Jasmine, if only because it’s out of character.”
She huffed out a breath, her cheeks burning. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She didn’t look at him again until they’d pulled up outside her hotel. The moment the car stopped, she released the seat belt and opened the door, welcoming the freezing blast of air on her hot face.
Adam’s eyes were still amused. “About nine?”
Jasmine nodded and closed the door.
A couple of minutes later, she swept back the curtains in her deluxe room, sank down onto a chair and looked out over Trafalgar Square and the world’s most famous Christmas tree. Her stepmother, Gill, had first brought her to see the tree when she was only six or seven and she’d been many times since. Strings of vertical lights draped the huge Norwegian spruce, picking out the snowflakes as they fell. It was a magical sight, one that should have felt familiar and soothing.
She wasn’t soothed. Her nerves felt chafed raw. In the last five years she thought she’d found peace, if not happiness. From the way Adam had been talking, it wouldn’t be long before he was back in New Zealand, probably Wellington, laughing and teasing and driving her mad with lust. Why had she slept with him? Far from satisfying her sexual curiosity, it had only served to make her want him more.
Three
T he drive from London took longer than expected because of a thick snow flurry, but finally they arrived at the estate just in time for lunch. Jasmine’s apprehension and excitement built as they passed through the heavy wrought-iron gates. She loved the drive up to the house. Fallow deer grazed in the wooded parkland. She pointed out the stud farm her father established a decade ago. Snow dusted the reeds around the lake fronting the house.
Pembleton, originally a large Georgian house, had been greatly added to in the years before the First World War and now lent itself more to the Edwardian era.
Even Adam expressed his admiration as they slowly approached the great dun-colored house, whose dimensions more resembled a terraced street than one residence. Jasmine sighed with pride. She might have grown up here and certainly had her share of bad memories of the place, but the house and setting still took her breath away.
“How many rooms?” Adam asked as they pulled up in front of the massive porticoed entrance.
“Over a hundred, though half of it is closed up.”
Her stepmother, Gill, burst out of the door and raced down the steps. Sixty years young, a petite, iron-gray-haired bundle of energy and efficiency, she greeted them with a volley of warm squeals.
“Your father is having a good day,” she told them, “and is quite excited about meeting Adam, even if he probably won’t show it.”
Jasmine didn’t take offense that her father was more excited about meeting Adam than seeing his daughter. She had always been a disappointment to him, first by bein
g born a girl, and then when she became the willful teenager who defied his wishes.
But in his distant manner, Sir Nigel did seem pleased to see her. He sat in his comfortable chair by the fireplace and inspected her for a minute or more while clasping one of her hands with both of his. Jasmine—Jane, to them—tried to conceal her shock at his frail appearance. He’d always been a burly man—that’s where she got her height from, since her mother had apparently been tiny. His most notable feature had always been his booming voice but there was little evidence of it today, except occasionally when addressing Adam. He was a shadow of his former self.
Jasmine grappled with guilt. She should be here to take care of him instead of leaving everything to Gill. She’d been with the family since Jasmine was ten years old. Gill was the warmest thing about her childhood and beyond.
They ate Christmas lunch in the formal dining room, a room that had, in the past, hosted banquets for heads of state. Among many great portraits on the walls there was a Madonna and child painted by Murillo hanging over the antique fireplace. They sat at one end of the massive table for “One’s table should never exceed the nine muses,” Gill liked to say.
As usual there was a daunting array of food—quail; turkey, roast beef; a whole salmon, pink and delicious; vegetables of every variety and then Christmas steamed pudding and brandy sauce with Gill’s folly, ancient threepences hidden within. Jasmine had pre-warned Adam of this eccentricity to avoid breaking a tooth.
Afterward, her father insisted Gill take the seal off an old bottle of port and they adjourned to the more informal drawing room.
“So you’re engaged at last,” her father said croakily, settling into his chair. Adam and Jasmine sat on an overstuffed antique couch opposite her father while Gill served the drinks.
This would be the awkward part but she didn’t expect there would be many questions. Her father would not care who she married, as long as his estate was looked after. “Yes, we are,” she replied, trying to sound excited.
“When is the wedding? Will it be here?”
Adam’s arm slipped around her shoulder and she tried not to flinch. “As soon as possible,” he murmured, “as far as I’m concerned.”
Jasmine’s smile didn’t slip but every muscle in her body tensed up and her mind raced. “We haven’t had time to discuss it,” she said, before burying her nose in her port.
Her father’s head raised. “Well, six months, a year?”
Her heart went out to him. With a death sentence hanging over his head, of course he wanted a date to grasp on to. “We’ll discuss it while we’re on holiday and let you know.”
“Hmph.” Her father subsided back into the seat, picking at the rug Gill had put over his knees. “I’ll have to announce it.”
“No!”
Jasmine’s sharp response had all eyes swiveling to her face. She swallowed down the panic that comment had instigated. “I’d really prefer to keep this just within the family, if possible.”
Her father gave her a spiteful look. “My daughter, the procrastinator,” he muttered.
She heard Adam’s quick indrawn breath and couldn’t look at him.
“That’s understandable, dear,” Gill said sympathetically.
Adam’s hand slid around and surreptitiously tugged on her ponytail. “I’m all for shouting it from the rooftops,” he said in a low voice that only she could hear.
Jasmine resisted the shiver of awareness that generated and kept her eyes on her father, amazed he would even suggest a public announcement after what happened with Vincent nearly six years ago. When the story broke that her fiancé and her best friend had run off into the sunset together just a month before her wedding, she hadn’t been able to leave the house without paparazzi on her tail. That was when she realized she could never escape her past. All her hopes and dreams crashed in spectacular style, played out in the media, and she decided to move as far away as she could get. Somewhere where no one knew of her infamous past, and hopefully never would.
“Have you spoken to Ian recently?” her father asked, his stern gaze losing none of its sharpness despite the ravages of age and illness.
“No.” Jasmine sighed. “Should I have?”
“Who’s Ian?” Adam leaned forward to set his port glass down. His brows were raised and his knee pressed against hers.
She gave him a cool glance. If you asked her, he was playing the amorous fiancé just a little too well for her liking. “A friend. Our neighbor.” She had told him about Ian—the little she wanted him to know at this point.
“A little more than a friend I think,” her father murmured.
Ian had been there all her life. They were the same age, had played together as children. He was her friend—until her father decided he would make an ideal husband. “He’s steady, a hard worker, and boys run in that family,” he declared. “Plus he will inherit the adjoining thousand acres. That gives us options to expand the estate and generate more income.”
From the time she was eighteen, her father never let up but Jasmine gave no serious consideration to a union. When her past and present collided with vivid impact, Ian was there to pick up the pieces. Because he was the only one in the world who didn’t look at her as if she had two heads, and because her father did all in his power to push them together, she went out with him for a couple of months and tried to think of him as more than a friend. She even slept with him, but there was no chemistry there for her.
They usually got together for a coffee or a meal on her annual trips home but she hadn’t felt obliged to let him know she was coming. Besides, she knew he was in Switzerland for Christmas.
Now everyone, Adam included, was looking at her as if she was a jezebel. “He’s a friend,” she repeated firmly, sipping her port.
“Hmph.” Her father glared at her hands. “No ring?”
“We plan to remedy that on this visit, don’t we, darling?” Adam took her free hand and squeezed it. “Antwerp or Amsterdam?”
Jasmine smiled faintly and forced herself to relax her fingers, one by one, while thinking of ways to kill him.
Thankfully the excitement and port had worn her father out and he retired shortly afterward for a nap. The blazing fire and overstuffed bellies had everyone yawning. Gill rose, saying she had made up Jasmine’s room. “You are staying? And for the party tomorrow?”
Jasmine prepared to say that she would stay but not Adam, and then Gill’s words filtered into her brain, setting up a wave of temptation to batter her defenses. Her room, she’d said. Not two rooms…
Her room where she’d played with dolls, swooned over the Backstreet Boys, experimented with clothes and makeup, fantasized over real boys, sneaked Vincent into…and then howled her anguish into her pillow when he broke her heart. What was a girl’s bedroom but a catalogue of the most intimate experiences of one’s life?
It couldn’t get any more intimate than having Adam Thorne in her room, in amongst her personal things. Heat that had little to do with the fire and more to do with that blasted man caressing her fingers spread through her, dampening her forehead.
And then there was the annual Boxing Day party tomorrow that the estate put on for the locals in the district. An afternoon tea and free tour for the villagers and later, cocktails and a dinner party for closer friends and the village dignitaries. The chances of getting through the whole thing without Adam discovering the depth of hatred between her father and his brother were slim. The locals loved to gossip about the inhabitants of the estate. The family feud and her personal shame were bound to arise at some point.
“Sorry,” she managed at last. “I can, but Adam has some business in town.”
Her “fiancé” lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her palm. “Nonsense. It’s Christmas. We’d love to stay.”
Oh, she really would have to kill him. Refusing to look at him, she gave Gill a rather strained smile and shrug.
Adam was clearly trying to embarrass and discomfit her. She s
et her mouth. It wouldn’t work. Pembleton wasn’t short on bedrooms and Jasmine knew where the bedding was kept.
Gill gave her a curious glance. Her stepmother was pretty intuitive. What was Adam playing at? She’d have thought he’d be pleased to get away from the ancient old house and her overbearing father. This just didn’t seem his scene.
“I think I’ll show Adam part of the house,” she said, rising. “And walk off some of that wonderful dinner.”
Gill nodded. “If you get hungry later, there are plenty of leftovers in the kitchen. Just help yourselves. Your father usually has his tea in his room but he might come down later.”
As soon as she’d gone, Jasmine turned back to Adam and kept her voice low. “Did you have to say you’d stay?”
He remained seated, looking up at her thoughtfully. “I’ve never stayed in a stately home before…tell me about Ian.”
She missed a beat. “What about him?”
“Have you slept together?”
Jasmine pressed her lips together to stop the hot retort that sprang to mind. Something in the way his sharp gaze focused so intently on her stopped her. After a long pause, she nodded.
“I see.”
What did he see? That she’d slept with him, therefore she was obliged to marry him? A smile nearly slipped out when she thought of the dent that would put in Adam Thorne’s womanizing ways.
Yet she felt compelled to justify herself. “It was comfort sex. And my father has his own acquisitive reasons for wanting me to marry Ian.”
“Do I need to dust off my dueling swords?”
She let another heartbeat go by, squashing down, as she often did, all the clever things she’d wish she’d said later, when she was alone. “Would you like to see the house or not?”
Adam got up, looming tall over her. She turned toward the door but he caught her arm and turned her back. “Why did you need his comfort?”
Jasmine blinked, needing to think. Overfull, overheated, overwhelmed by him…how much did he deserve to know? She couldn’t bear it if all the salacious stories got back to his brother and her colleagues. Of course she missed home, this house mostly, Gill, and sometimes her cantankerous father. But New Zealand was her haven. Her comfortable art deco house in the eastern suburbs was a far cry from the luxury and tradition of Pembleton, but she felt safe there. With one careless word, Adam could whip that safety net out from under her.
