Guilty

by Anne Mather

  She sniffed, and rolled on to her side, as a fat tear over-spilled her eye, and dropped on to the pillow. It was such a beautiful night, the moonlight shining through the crack in the curtains, giving the room a pearly luminescence. It was a night for love, she thought unhappily. And wasn’t it a pity that the only man she might have loved was too young, too rich—and involved with her own daughter…?

  She thought at first she was dreaming. When she felt the depression of the mattress, and a warm body curled, sensually, about her own, she responded with instinctive willingness. She had been thinking about Jake, and it wasn’t the first time she had had dreams of this sort. Indeed, she seldom slept without dreaming about Jake these days, and, although in daylight it might seem pathetic, at night she was incapable of denying her fantasies.

  But this was different. As she turned in his arms, and felt the heat of his naked body, she was puzzled. The strength of his embrace was so real, so physical, that she could actually feel the taut muscles that covered his belly, could even smell the musky scent of his skin. Always before, the dream had given way to substance; when she’d reached for him, he had melted; when she’d tried to hold on to him, he’d been gone. That was why she had always awakened, hot and frustrated, torn by emotions she had had no hope of fulfilling.

  But not now. Now, she could wind her arms around him. She could press herself against him, and feel the instantaneous response of his body in return. Oh, God, she thought wildly, was she going mad? Was his arousal of her body the previous day responsible for this change in her perception?

  But when his lips found hers, any previous perceptions fled. This was no dream, she realised, even while her mouth opened helplessly beneath the hungry possession of his. This was real. This was actually happening. Jake was in her bed, as naked as the day he was born, and she was coiled about him, as if she never wanted to let him go.

  Reason was slow in coming, but, when it did, she fought to get free. Even though, seconds before, she had let him thrust his wet tongue into her mouth, she beat at him now with her fists, until he was forced to lift his head.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she choked, trying to wriggle away from him. ‘You have no right to do this!’

  ‘No?’ Jake resisted her attempts to escape him without too much effort. ‘I rather thought you were glad to see me.’

  ‘Me?’ Laura panted. ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘Well, a few moments ago—–’

  ‘A few moments ago, I was asleep,’ she retorted, aware that her struggles had driven her nightshirt up above her thighs. ‘Jake, let go of me. Please.’

  Jake shifted, but he didn’t release her. He simply drew her closer, opening his legs and trapping her between them. It enabled him to free one hand to smooth the tumbled hair back from her temple, to brush her quivering lips with his thumb, and scrape his nail against her teeth.

  ‘Keep still,’ he said, and in the moonlight she could see the sensual twist of his lips, as he took every conceivable liberty with her body. Ignoring her frustrated efforts to fight him, he allowed his hand to trail down over her breasts, and her uncontrollable response made him smile.

  ‘This—this is—unforgivable,’ she gulped, using her anger to sustain her. But she knew that the longer he held her, the longer he played with her treacherous emotions, the less likely it was that she would win this unequal contest. One hand in the small of her back was urging her against his tumescent maleness, and the heat of him against her groin was driving all coherent thoughts out of her head.

  ‘You want me,’ he said, inching the nightshirt over her midriff.

  ‘No—–’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed with satisfaction as the offending garment flipped over her breasts, and their fullness was exposed to his hungry gaze. He took the swollen globes into his hands, and squeezed them sensuously. ‘Now, tell me about it,’ he breathed, stroking their proud crests with his thumb. ‘Ah, cara, sono belli, vero?’

  ‘I don’t know—I don’t know what you’re saying,’ protested Laura fretfully, but the possessive touch of his hands on her body was rapidly making everything else of little importance. He had removed the nightshirt completely now, and the fine dark hair that filmed his chest was disturbingly pleasurable against her skin. It arrowed down below his navel to the cluster of rough curls that cradled his sex. And as he moved, she involuntarily arched against him.

  ‘I was only telling you you’re beautiful,’ he whispered huskily, taking one of her fluttering hands, and pressing it over his pulsating shaft. He groaned. ‘Molta bella,’ he got out thickly. ‘I want to be a part of you.’

  ‘Oh, Jake,’ she breathed unsteadily, but it was no longer an objection. The silky heat of his arousal against her hand had banished any lingering thought of resisting him. When his hand slid between her legs, she didn’t try to stop him. She wanted him to touch her there. Her flesh was crying out for the quivering release he had given her the day before. But when his lips slanted over hers, and his tongue plunged aggressively into her mouth, she knew she wanted more. She could smell him; she could taste him; the musky male scent of his body was driving her insane. She could feel her readiness on his hands—readiness for him.

  She wasn’t aware of making any sound, but when Jake removed his hand she must have done, because he soothed her with a kiss. ‘Be patient, amorissima’ he said, though his own voice was far from controlled. He parted her legs with one hairy thigh, and moved until the throbbing pulse of his manhood was nudging her tight core. ‘Let me love you,’ he added hoarsely, and unable to restrain himself any longer, he thrust urgently inside her.

  Laura gasped. She couldn’t help herself. It was so long since she had known a man’s body, so long since Keith had taken her virginity. It was as if she had never known a man before, and Jake was so big that he couldn’t help bruising her.

  ‘Laura! Cara!’ he exclaimed, covering her hot face with kisses. ‘Mi displace, I am sorry! Did I hurt you?’

  But Laura was finding that any pain she had felt was disappearing beneath the overwhelming pleasure of feeling his taut strength stretching the yielding source of her femininity. ‘Oh, no,’ she breathed, hardly aware of saying anything, as his body moved and swelled inside her. ‘Oh, no, you’re not hurting me,’ she added, as her long legs curled about his hips. ‘Oh, God, that feels so good! Jake—please! Don’t stop now.’

  It was as if she had been sleeping, as if every dormant nerve was awakening to the amazing awareness of her own sexuality. She had never felt like this before, never imagined she could feel such a tumult of emotion. She wound herself about him, meeting his invasion with an eagerness she simply couldn’t deny. She no longer thought about who he was, or where they were, or anything outside this room, and this bed, and the satisfying thrust of Jake’s hard body…

  Of course, she had to think eventually. No matter how dramatic her personal fulfilment might have been, sooner or later, reality had to raise its ugly head. And it was ugly, she thought dully, as the wild heights of enchantment Jake had lifted her to, dropped back into a well of despair.

  Oh, it was easy to be wise after the event, easy to berate herself for allowing it to happen, for letting Jake do what she had sworn he never would. But, the truth was, she was far too vulnerable where he was concerned, and he had known that, and used it to his own advantage.

  And, as the ripples of delight faded away, and were replaced by increasing waves of remorse, a chilling self-abasement sowed the seeds of disenchantment. What had she done? she asked herself bitterly. What kind of a woman was she? What kind of a mother, to make love with her daughter’s lover!

  A groan of nausea rose inside her, and, half afraid she might lose control of her stomach, as well as everything else, she struggled to get free of him. But Jake was a solid weight on top of her. Lying between her splayed legs, with his face buried in the moist hollow between her breasts, he was apparently quite content to prolong his pleasure in the moment. However, when she began to shift beneath him, she distin
ctly felt his immediate arousal.

  ‘God—no!’ she choked, as her own body quickened in response. Not again. But she realised she had to get away from him, and quickly, before he used her own weakness against her.

  ‘Basta! Cosa fai?’ he protested sleepily, as she made a superhuman effort to wriggle off the bed, and she wondered, somewhat painfully, if he was confusing her with someone else. Did he sleep with so many women that he couldn’t keep track of their nationality? Dear God, this was a nightmare! If only she could wake up.

  But when Jake lifted his head and saw her, there was only satisfaction in the dark sensual gaze he bestowed upon her. ‘Bella Laura,’ he said, confounding all her fears about identity. ‘Mi amore, ti voglio—–’

  Laura’s heart pounded. She would not have been human if she had not felt some response to the husky resonance of his words. When his mouth brushed her temples, his tongue feathering over her eyelids, they fluttered closed. And she could feel herself beginning to drift, the sensuous touch of his lips and hands a mindless provocation. Where was the harm? her senses cried. Why shouldn’t she just give in?

  Not again!

  Forcing her eyes open, Laura turned her head away from Jake’s questing tongue. ‘No,’ she said harshly. ‘No, don’t touch me! How—how can you do this? You’re going to marry—Julie!’

  ‘Che?’ Jake’s reaction was vehement, and he came up on his elbows, to glare down at her accusingly. ‘What are you saying?’ he demanded, and when she would have used the freedom he had given her to put the width of the bed between them he straddled her with his knees. Then, imprisoning her between his strong thighs, he said savagely, ‘No!’ And, although the word sounded more Italian than English, its meaning was unmistakable. ‘No, I am not going to marry Julie,’ he repeated emphatically. ‘I do not know where in hell you got that from, but believe me, it is not going to happen!’

  The postcard was lying face-up on the mat, when Laura opened the cottage door. It was a colourful postcard, the picture showing a view of the Hollywood hills, with the famous HOLLYWOOD sign, depicting the movie capital of the world, in the foreground.

  It was from Julie, of course, thought Laura tensely, bending unwillingly to pick up the card. And she ought to be flattered that, even on such an exciting mission, her daughter hadn’t forgotten her.

  But, it was the last thing she needed at this moment. A reminder of where her daughter was, and what she was doing, and why she hadn’t spent the weekend at Castellombardi.

  Now Laura lifted her case into the tiny hallway, and inched herself round it, so that she could close the door. Then, she collapsed somewhat tearfully back against it, allowing the pent-up emotions of the past twenty-four hours to have their way. It was so good to be back in her own home again, and without the postcard in her hand she could almost have convinced herself she was content.

  But the postcard had changed things. No matter how unwelcome it might be, it had served to bring reality back into focus. She couldn’t escape what she had done. She couldn’t erase the events of the past forty-eight hours. What had happened, had happened, and she was going to have to live with it.

  She closed her eyes, as a wave of weariness swept over her. She was tired, so tired. And it wasn’t because Jake had exhausted her—not directly, anyway. She sighed, remembering the terrible row they had had over Julie. Whatever feelings Jake might have had for her, the bitterness of the words they had exchanged must have changed that, too. He hadn’t appeared at breakfast. He hadn’t driven her to the airport in Pisa. Indeed, she hadn’t seen him since he’d stormed out of the bedroom the night before.

  God! She pushed herself away from the door, and walked heavily into the cold living-room. While she was away, she had turned the heating off, and although it should have been warm enough she felt chilled right through. But she had the feeling that the coldness she felt came from within, not without, and no crackling fire or clunking radiators would make a scrap of difference.

  She looked at the postcard again. She supposed she ought to see what Julie had to say, but she was loath to look at her daughter’s handwriting. Not yet, she thought tightly, setting the postcard down on the mantelshelf. She needed a hot drink, before she could face that.

  She took some time, watering her plants, and washing the coffee-cup she had used early on Saturday morning. Even that reminded her of the excitement she had felt when the chauffeur-driven limousine had called for her, and it took the utmost effort not to give in to tears again. She felt so lost, so empty; and she thought how naïve she had been to think that what she had felt when Keith had left her had meant anything at all. Then, she had been more concerned about what her friends would say, and learning she was pregnant had aroused feelings of panic, not unrequited love.

  But this was different, so different. Now, the idea that she might never see Jake again filled her with despair, and she didn’t know how she was going to survive it. There were times when she actually wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better to know that Jake was going to marry Julie. At least, then, she would have stood a chance of seeing him again. And, although that might sound like the ravings of a madwoman, desperation came in many guises.

  If only they could have met one another, without Julie’s being involved, she thought now, filling the kettle, and plugging it in. Only, of course, there was no way someone like her would ever have encountered a man like him. It simply didn’t happen. She was a north-country schoolteacher, whose only claim to fame was that the children seemed to like her. Well, other people’s children, she acknowledged ruefully. She hadn’t had such success with her own.

  Nevertheless, the chances of a middle-aged teacher meeting a man like Giacomo Lombardi were virtually nonexistent. She simply didn’t move in the same kind of social circles, and without Julie’s intervention their paths would never have crossed.

  But they had, and, according to Jake, he had been attracted to her from the very beginning. Laura shook her head, scrubbing an errant tear from her cheek. Well, that was easy for him to say, she thought bitterly. How could he say anything else, when he’d just spent the last half-hour seducing the woman he was expressing his feelings to? And a man like him could be attracted to any number of women. It didn’t mean anything. Not really. It was gratifying; flattering even; but it was just empty talk.

  And she hadn’t taken him seriously, she told herself firmly. She had known all along that any relationship between them couldn’t last. Aside from everything else, there was Julie to consider, and Laura would do nothing to hurt her daughter.

  Which was the reason she and Jake had had that almighty row, she remembered, with a shiver of dismay. So far as he was concerned, she was just using her daughter as a reason for denying what was between them. She didn’t really care about Julie, Jake had told her contemptuously. She was just afraid of life, and Julie was a convenient scapegoat.

  Of course, Laura had denied it. She had told him what Julie had told her, and, even if he hadn’t believed her, it had opened up an unbreachable gulf between them. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted the kind of relationship he had been talking about anyway. She was a conventional woman, with conventional needs. She simply wasn’t the type to exist in that surreal world between what she knew and what she didn’t.

  Oh, he had told her he loved her. While he was making love to her, he had told her so in his own language, and, although Laura was no linguist, some words were unmistakable. But it meant nothing. In the throes of sexual release, people said lots of things they didn’t mean. She had done it herself. Although what she actually had said, when he had driven her to clutch at his hips and cry out in ecstasy, she would rather not remember. Suffice it to say, she had betrayed everything she had ever believed in. She had given herself to Jake, wantonly and shamefully, and he had been angry because she had fallen back on the precepts of a childhood she had lived with for almost forty years.

  The kettle boiled, and she made herself a cup of instant coffee. Then, after giving the ga
rden an uninterested glance, she carried her cup into the living-room. It was strange, she thought, settling herself in an armchair beside the fireplace. In just three days, everything looked totally different to her. The cottage; the garden; even this room—which used to be so familiar to her—had lost its appeal. She felt like a stranger in her own home. Well, she was a stranger, she reflected painfully. A stranger to herself at least.

  But it was no use, she rebuked herself impatiently. This was where she lived, where she belonged. Meeting Jake—even sleeping with Jake—had only been a minor deviation. It wasn’t as if he wanted to marry her, or anything old-fashioned like that. The way he had reacted, when she had suggested that Julie wanted to marry him, had convinced her of that. An affair, yes. That was something else. But how could she have an affair with him, knowing that when it was over she would be left to pick up the pieces of her life alone?

  The postcard mocked her from its position on the mantelpiece, and, pushing herself up from the chair, she took it down. Hollywood, she thought ruefully. What must the postman have thought?

  Turning it over, she checked that it was addressed to her. Yes, there was her name, and there was Julie’s signature. There was no mistake. The card was for her. So why not read it? She was going to have to eventually.

  She frowned.

  Hi Mum. Here I am in Beverly Hills, and loving every minute of it. The weather’s great, the hotel’s fantastic, and I’ve met so many gorgeous men that I’ve lost count. David—that’s David Conti, the producer—he’s been terrific. He’s introduced me to ever so many important people—and he’s single! He thinks I should stay out here, and I’m really considering it. Sorry about the Italian trip, and all that, but I don’t suppose you were too disappointed. You didn’t want to go anyway, and I’m sure Jake let you down lightly. Will write when I have time…