Temptation is the Night

by Marguerite Kaye

He didn’t like being out of control like this. He had the oddest idea that she was about to do something outrageous, something totally unlike Lindsey. Or perhaps something very like this Lindsey. This new, more mature, much more determined, infinitely more beguiling Lindsey. He worried that whatever it was he would like it.

  “Untie me,” Jack demanded, mustering all the air of command his embarrassing position allowed him.

  But Lindsey simply shook her head, and now he could see something of her intention in her eyes. From the way she was clenching and unclenching her fingers, she was steeling herself for it. From the way she was looking at him, he knew he was going to have to steel himself not to submit.

  Lindsey loosened her robe. “You stopped coming to my room. I thought you didn’t want me. But I did, Jack. I wanted you, I always wanted you. I was just tired of being the one with all the needs.”

  Her fingers were painted the same shade of deep vermillion as her mouth. He watched them, fascinated.

  “I want you now, Jack. I’m going to show you how much I want you. And you are going to admit how much you want me.”

  She was standing at the foot of the bed. There was a full-length mirror on the wall behind her. She pulled the robe apart and allowed it to slide down her body, where it pooled at her feet. Underneath it she wore stockings tied with garters. Wispy little slippers trimmed with feathers. And nothing else. Absolutely nothing else.

  White skin. Long legs. Full round breasts tipped with dark nipples. A cluster of auburn curls between her thighs. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off her. His arms and legs strained at their ties as he tried to see her reflection in the mirror. The long elegant line of her back. The gentle slope of her bottom. His breathing quickened. He forced himself to look away. “You won’t change my mind this way,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if it was true.

  “I can try.” Lindsey ran a hand slowly down her body, from her neck, grazing the nipple of her left breast, her stomach, her flank. The bright red of her fingernails drew attention to the path she traced. His eyes followed it, mesmerised. She stretched languorously, her arms above her head, pulling up her rib cage, her breasts, her waist narrowing. She was teasing him. Deliberately teasing him. Lindsey! And she was enjoying it. That light in her eyes. The tiniest curl of her mouth.

  “Let me go, Lindsey. I won’t be responsible for the consequences if you don’t.”

  She actually laughed. Then she sashayed over to the dressing table, returning with a large pair of scissors and Jack sighed with relief, though if truth were told, it was more because he would be free to do as he wanted with her, not to leave. Not yet.

  But to his consternation, Lindsey made no move to cut his bonds. Instead, she set about removing his shoes and socks. Then she leaned over and unfastened first his tie, then the buttons of his shirt, smoothing her palms flat on his skin, and he could do nothing about the fact that he was aroused. Immediately.

  Next, his belt. Then she picked up the scissors and freed his ankles, but only so that she could take off the rest of his clothing. There was nothing he could do to stop her, and he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to.

  “What are you playing at?”

  “I’m not playing, Jack. I’m trying to prove you wrong. You want me. I want you. Surely it’s that simple.”

  “Nothing is ever that simple,” Jack muttered, but his focus was elsewhere. Lindsey climbing onto the bed, inching her way up between his legs. Her breasts caressed the skin on his calf. His knee. Deliberately? His thigh. Definitely deliberately. He tried not to like it, and failed. His constrained state was frustrating. It was also, in some unexpected way, exciting. Lindsey in control. Himself helpless. He hated it. Or he should do.

  She sat up on her knees, running a hand down each of his flanks. The red of her nails was hypnotic. The smile which played at the corners of her mouth—tantalising. Desire and anger warred inside him. It was wrong, all of this was wrong, but what she was doing felt so right. Her fingers stroking the backs of his knees, his buttocks, stroking and touching, making him feel as he never had. Out of control. A yearning to let go.

  No!

  Yes.

  Lindsey shifted her body, so that she straddled him, her thighs on either side of his waist. The length of his shaft arced up into her back along the curve of her buttocks. She leaned back, relishing the nudging of it against her. She leaned over him now, bracing herself on the bed, her hands either side of his shoulders. Her nipples brushed his chest. A frisson. Carefully she moved them, brushing over the hard wall of muscle. Another shiver, deeper inside. Jack’s breath a sharp inhale, his body bucking up under hers, his arms straining for release.

  “Lindsey, let me go.”

  She sat up. His erection slid up her back. She could feel herself damp on the skin of his abdomen. Her own arousal thrummed inside her, bubbling through her blood like a drug. She saw his eyes on her breasts. Cupping them in her own hands, she grazed her nipple with her finger, imagining it was Jack, closing her eyes at the frisson of delight running through her. Opening her eyes, she saw his gaze fastened hard on her. She repeated the action.

  “Lindsey, let me go.” He was not pleading, more—promising, the huskiness of his voice making her shiver as if he had spoken onto her skin. “You’ll enjoy it much more if I can touch you,” he urged.

  “This isn’t about what you can do to me, Jack, it’s about what I can do to you.” She let her hand trail down between her breasts, her stomach, stopping just where their bodies met. “My pleasure is your pleasure Jack, I wish you could see that.” She reached behind her, running her fingers up his length. The contact stirred her. She felt him judder. “It’s you who have to let go. You can trust me. Trust yourself to me, just this once.”

  Her heart was pounding. She was throbbing with need. The need to have him inside her. The need for release. The need to see him lose himself in her as she was lost in him. She leaned over him again, her breasts flattened onto his chest, her mouth against his, their lips touching. A kiss, the briefest of kisses. Her lips, her tongue, his immediate response.

  She shifted to allow her breasts to graze his lips now, gasping as his tongue flicked over them. She leaned over further. His mouth was soft and urgent on her nipple. Tugging, the tugging echoed lower down, between her legs. Lindsey moaned.

  “Lindsey, untie me.” Definitely not a command, a plea.

  She shook her head. Carefully, she positioned herself over him, and started to draw him into her slowly, her muscles clinging lovingly to the thick length of him as she sheathed him, further and further, until she was sitting astride him, unbelievably full of him. She paused, breathing raggedly, trying to contain the excitement inside her which mounted as she mounted, which screamed for her to move, fast. Beneath her, Jack’s face was a rigid mask, set and hard, eyes glittering with dark pleasure. He was waiting. Not fighting her. Not challenging her. Waiting.

  She prayed for restraint, but knew herself a lost cause the moment she moved. She wanted to unleash him. She wanted to see him out of control, for she knew it was this which would be her own true unleashing. But it was too much. One lift, one plunge, the sensation of his shaft pulsing inside her, the friction of her own heat grinding into him as she thrust and he pushed up against her, and she was already tight, tightening, too tight. Tipped over suddenly, without any warning, she fell and shattered, throbbing and pulsing around him, moaning with abandon.

  She thought she had failed, but even as she surrendered she saw raw desire etched across his face. He arched up against her, encouraging her to move again, and she did. Through the sweep and eddy of her own climax she moved on top of him, hard, fast, grindingly urgent, gasping his name, holding him tight, clenchingly tight, so tight she felt him swell inside her, forging his way to new heights, pushing her over again, thickening and filling her.

  There was a look of pained passion on his face. He was running with her, saying her name over and over, pushing deeper, and she leaned forward over him, sobbing, throbbin
g, kissing, his tongue thrust hard into her mouth as she felt him explode into her with the harsh cry of one who is falling.

  Then she did cut the ties around his wrists, for she desperately wanted to be held. And he did hold her, at last, his arms securing her to him, chest to chest, their legs entangled, her face pressed into his neck. She could feel their hearts beating. His fingers stroked her hair, his palm tenderly cupping the back of her head.

  It was that, that one tiny gesture, which told her she had lost. His palm on the back of her head. As if to stop her shattering. Knowing that what he was about to say would break her.

  “Lindsey.”

  She twisted herself free of his embrace to look down at him and saw what she had expected. Regret. Tenderness. Sorrow. Determination. She put her fingers over his mouth, as if to hold back the words, but he took them away. He sat up in bed, taking her with him. “I’m sorry,” he said wretchedly.

  “Can I just ask you one thing?”

  The shutters came down immediately. “It depends.”

  “Not that, don’t worry. Whatever it is, your big secret. It’s something else. I used to think—I thought—if we’d had a child, would it have made a difference? I hoped, you see, but it never happened. I thought I’d failed you. Was that it?”

  He pulled her to him, crushing her with the strength of his hold. “You didn’t fail me. You can’t think that. We—us—it wouldn’t have worked, no matter what.”

  She couldn’t stop the tears now. Hot, trickling painfully, blotting the thick mascara which coated her lashes. “Don’t you love me, Jack?” The words were wrenched from her, a desperately painful plea for some chink of hope.

  His grip on her arms was bruising. Anguish made his face grim. He wanted to give her what she asked, but he knew it would lead only to a slower, more painful death. Best it was a clean cut. He knew all about that, from the war. Much more humane. “I can’t.”

  Weighted down with sadness, Lindsey pulled herself free. She picked up her peignoir and drew it around her. Forcing a smile to a face streaked with tears, she swallowed the pleas which clogged her throat. She would not part on such terms. She would not leave either of them with such a memory. “Once again, you give me no choice. Best if you go now. We’ve both of us proved we’re no good at goodbyes.”

  She headed for the bathroom. She did not look back, but clicked the lock shut then turned on the taps of the huge marble bath to their fullest force. The noise of water thundering into the tub drowned out her sobbing.

  Jack stared at the closed door, feeling as if a leaden weight were holding him down. He had what he wanted, but it felt like the last thing in the world he desired.

  He dressed. He left the suite. The bathroom door remained resolutely closed.

  The painting arrived the next day. Wanting,1920, it was titled. His study at Crieff House, viewed from the door opposite the window. The shadow of a woman stretched out from the doorway. A man who was quite clearly himself, looked out of the window, his back to the woman. The landscape beyond was wintery. Desolation and despair emanated from the canvas, though how she managed to convey that, Jack could not put into words.

  There was no note. When he called her suite at the Ritz he was informed she had checked out. Archie Davenport told him, when he eventually tracked him down the next day, that Lindsey had sailed for New York that morning.

  Chapter 4

  New York, two months later

  The telegram arrived mid-morning while Lindsey was working in her studio at the rear of her brownstone house just off Washington Square. It had been redirected from her uncle’s Fifth Avenue apartment. Though she remained on friendly terms with her relatives, Lindsey preferred her independence. She also preferred the bohemian ambiance of Greenwich Village to the stifling gentility of the Upper West Side.

  Meet me in the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Terminal, one o’clock. Jack.

  As succinct and unreadable as ever. She checked the date. It was definitely for today. There was only one thing he could want to talk to her about. Divorce. But why choose such a public place? In fact, why bother coming at all? She felt her breakfast churning threateningly in her stomach and took some deep, calming breaths. She reread the telegram. It had been sent from the Mauritania that morning. He must just have arrived. What could be so urgent?

  Her hand was still clenched around the palette knife which she had used to open the telegram. There was a smear of burnt sienna paint on the envelope. She put the knife on her easel. She had no choice but to meet him. She would have had to write herself, sooner or later anyway. She pulled off the smock which protected her clothes. In a way, it was a relief to have her hand forced. Despite everything, a little kick of excitement shivered through her.

  Lindsey paid off the cab and made her way into the cavernous main concourse of Grand Central. As usual, it was a teeming throng of people from all walks of life. Porters rushed about pushing trolleys stacked with suitcases, trunks and hampers. Children played hide and seek from their nannies. Businessmen checked their watches against one of the four faces of the huge clock. In the background, the whistles from conductors and the hissing of the locomotives could be heard coming from the tracks.

  She came here often to sketch, perched on one of the balconies under the dark blue of the ceiling, with its back-to-front stars, enjoying the panorama, the collision of all of New York’s worlds taking place on one stage below her. Often, she indulged in a late lunch at the Oyster Bar. Her cousin Lloyd had first taken her there when she was ten. It was a strange place for Jack to pick. She wondered how he knew about it. New Yorkers liked to think it one of their best-kept secrets.

  Looking up at the big clock, she realised she was late. She smoothed down the soft pleats of her lemon dress, tugging the matching jacket straight, tucked an errant lock of hair back behind her ear and headed for the ramp. The Oyster Bar was on the lower level, under the beautiful tiled and vaulted ceilings which always made her feel as if she were in Italy, rather than deep underground in Manhattan.

  Jack was sitting at a table tucked away in the far corner of the restaurant. She spotted him straight away. The shape of his head. The breadth of his shoulders. The something else which marked him out from every other man. He wasn’t just the most attractive man in the room, he was the only one.

  “You came,” he said, standing up to take her hand in his, holding it between his own in a tight grip, gazing at her, not quite able to believe she was really there. He’d been waiting over an hour, terrified of missing her, feeling like a fool for choosing such a public place. But it was here, where it all began, when he had first seen her, his angel sent from heaven. If it had to end, if he were to be banished from paradise, it was fitting that it should be here too. And if they were to have their new beginning— dear God, please let it be here. Jack pulled out a chair. “Sit down. You look—you look beautiful.” He smiled tightly. “As always.”

  Lindsey sat down. He looked tired. He was nervous. It took her a moment to recognise it. She had never seen him nervous before. Strangely, her own nerves had faded the moment she saw him. She wanted to put her arms around him and tell him it was all right. Whatever it was, it was all right. It was all she had ever wanted, to make it all right for him, if only he would let her.

  She smiled at him reassuringly, touching his arm, which was resting on the table. “Of course I came. Though why you chose here—how did you even know this place existed?”

  He took her hand again, turning her wedding band around on her finger. “This is where it all started. Us.”

  “Here?” She looked confused. “We met on the boat. We’ve never been here before.”

  Now he smiled at her. A strange little smile. “We have. This is where I first saw you, the day we sailed. I’d just got back from Chicago on the Pullman, and someone had told me I shouldn’t miss this place. You were sitting at this table. You were with a man, he had really bright red hair.”

  “My cousin Lloyd.”

  “You loo
ked so pretty. So untouched. Right then and there, I wanted you. I’ve never felt anything like it in my life. I felt as if I knew you. Though of course I didn’t, and I could hardly go pushing my way in on your lunch date and introduce myself. I sat over there, and I watched you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

  “You never told me.”

  The restaurant was crowded. Crockery and cutlery clattered. Waiters glided by with platters of oysters. Every now and then the soft sigh of a champagne bottle being expertly uncorked broke through the subdued chatter of the diners. In the midst of it all, Jack and Lindsey sat as if they were entirely alone, completely caught up in their own world, as if a bubble held them apart from the lunch-time crowd going about their business.

  “No, I never told you,” Jack said. “I never told you lots of things. I didn’t want to contaminate you. But you said something that night at the Ritz which made me think. You said I gave you no choice. I meant it for the best but—anyway, I came here to tell you. Everything. And then, to let you choose. If you want to. If you’ll listen.”

  He didn’t want a divorce. He wanted to talk. At last, he wanted to talk. Her heart was thumping so loudly she was surprised he couldn’t hear it. “Of course I’ll listen. You don’t even have to tie me to the chair,” Lindsey said with an attempt at humour.

  Jack managed a thin smile. “I don’t know about you, but I think a glass of something would help.” He seemed only to raise an eyebrow and the waiter was at his side with a champagne bucket and glasses. “A toast,” Jack said with a wry look, once they were alone again. “To confessions.”

  He touched his glass to hers, but he had as well kissed her, so intimate was the gesture. “To confessions.” Lindsey took a tentative sip of the sparkling wine. It was icy cold. Now that the moment had come, she felt almost as nervous as he. She had no idea what he was about to say, but she was terrified of how she would react. She so desperately did not want to let him down, not when it was costing him so much. She took another sip of champagne, but the bubbles were making her stomach churn. She put the glass to one side.