by Penny Jordan
Inside her the desire tensed and coiled. Urgently she opened her eyes. He was bending his head towards her. She could feel herself hovering on the edge of a precipice, carried there, hurled there by the ferocity of her own need. Frantically she reached for his shoulders, whispering thickly, the words almost lost against his chest, 'Yes...oh, S... Now...now... I want you now.'
Her body was already quivering in the grip of its first pre-climax spasm of warning, and she whimpered beneath the force of it. He was moving onto her, into her, slowly—too slowly, her aroused, senses recognised, and her flesh surrounded him with eager complicity, the jerky movement of her hips setting a fast and urgent rhythm that she could feel him trying to resist. Her hands slid down his back, urging him to thrust deeper within her. She felt him pause, resist almost, but her body wouldn't let him. Moist and urgent, more erotic and arousing, more irresistible by far than any practised sensual persuasion, it finally overcame and overwhelmed his attempt to hold back from her, and he began to move far more deeply and strongly within her.
It was like hearing her favourite, most emotion- arousing piece of music, looking out of her bedroom window at home on Christmas Day to see the countryside deep in an unexpected blanket of snow; eating her favourite food; having her emotions and her senses touched in every single way that aroused them, and all at the same time. It was all those things and more. All those things intensified a thousand—no, a hundred thousand times over, a sensation, a feeling, a being so, so intense, so perfect, almost beyond her capacity to bear its delight, that she thought when the fiercely strong climactic contractions surged through her body that the relief would cause her to break apart.
Afterwards, lying in Gareth's arms, crying and clinging to him as she fought for the words to tell him how magical, how mystifying, how awesomely unbelievably wonderful she had found the experience in between her emotional tears she could hear him telling her hoarsely that it was all right, that she was safe, that he was sorry. Somewhere between registering what he was saying and trying to respond to it she fell asleep, and when she woke up it was dark and Gareth was gone, leaving her tucked up in her bed, her bikini neatly folded on her chair beside her.
Downstairs in the villa she could hear her parents' voices, and then Katie came rushing into the room calling out urgently, 'Lou, wake up. We've got to pack. There's been some sort of emergency at home and we've got to go back. Dad's got us an early- morning flight...'
'An emergency... What...?' Louise demanded groggily, her thoughts automatically turning protectively to Saul.
'I don't know. None of us do. All I know is that Mum was on the phone to Maddy for simply ages.'
In the rush to pack up everything and make it to the airport to catch their flight, Louise simply didn't have the time to dwell on what had happened with Gareth, and anyway her lethargic, sensually sated body felt too complete and satisfied at that stage, too well pleasured and indolently disinclined to take issue with her mind about what had happened for her to do anything other than secretly luxuriate in the aura of sensuality that still clung to her senses, anaesthetising her against any need to analyse what had happened or why.
That came later, once they were back at home— hours of endless soul-searching and self-cross- examination while she went over and over what had happened, half inclined to give in to the temptation to comfort herself by believing that she had simply dreamed the whole thing. Dreaming about Gareth Simmonds in that way would have been bad enough, but of course she knew it was no dream.
The crisis which had brought them back to Haslewich, as Louise had guessed, involved her grandfather, who had developed a severe chest infection, and Maddy had rushed up from London to be with him.
'Mum is over with Gramps and Maddy. Maddy doesn't look very well herself, though Gramps is over the worst of it now. Joss was very worried about him. You know what he's like?' Katie said, a few days after their return.
'Don't I just?' Louise agreed darkly.
Her brother had caught her off guard only the previous day by asking her if she had heard anything from Gareth Simmonds since their return.
'No. Why should I have heard anything?' she had demanded, red-faced. 7 wasn't the one who kept on encouraging him to come round to the villa... / wasn't the one who went on long, boring walks with him.'
'They weren't boring,' Joss had contradicted her affably. 'He knows almost as much about the countryside as Aunt Ruth. He told me that when he was my age he used to spend his holidays in Scotland, with his grandmother. Anyway,' he had added, returning to her earlier question, 'he is your tutor.'
Was. Louise had been on the point of correcting him, but she'd stopped herself just in time. She had already made up her mind that she was going to change courses. The thought of going back to Oxford and having to face Gareth Simmonds now after what had happened made her break out in a cold sweat and shudder with self-loathing. How could she have behaved like that...?
While she and Katie were still talking the door opened and Joss came in.
'Could either of you drive me over to Gramps,' Joss asked winningly. 'I thought I'd go and see if there was anything I could do.'
'Why do you want to go over there?' Louise asked him curiously.
'I thought I could go and play chess with Gramps and give Maddy a bit of a break, so that she can go out and do some shopping or something to cheer herself up a bit...buy herself a new dress,' he added, with male vagueness.
'But Mum's over there with her,' Katie pointed out.
Joss shook his head. 'No, she isn't,' he told them. 'She had a meeting of the mother and baby home committee at three. She was just going to call and see Maddy on the way.'
'I'll drive you,' Louise told him, springing up and busying herself looking for a jacket, so that neither he nor Katie would see the emotional sheen of tears in her eyes brought there by the sudden awareness of just what kind of man her younger brother was going to turn out to be.
As she had promised herself she would do, Louise transferred to a different course and a new tutor once she was back at Oxford. Ironically her twin attended Gareth Simmonds' lectures herself now, but every time Katie mentioned him Louise very determinedly changed the subject and blanked her off, telling her quite sharply on one occasion, 'Katie, if you don't mind, can we please talk about something else, or someone else?'
'You don't like Professor Simmonds, I know—' Katie began.
Louise interrupted her, laughing harshly as she told her, ,'It isn't simply that I don't like him, Katie—I loathe, detest and abhor the man, totally, completely and utterly. Do you understand? I loathe him. Loathe him...'
But she still dreamt of him at night that first term of the new year, and into the next—bewildering, confusing dreams involving a kaleidoscope of emotions and feelings from which she awoke in the early hours, her body shaking and drenched in perspiration and her eyes wet with tears.
The phone rang sharply, piercing her thoughts and bringing her back abruptly to the present. Quickly Louise went to pick up the receiver.
'Ah, so you are back. Why have you not returned my call?'
As she listened to the plaintive voice of Jean Claude, Louise reminded herself that she was no longer nineteen, and that she had come a long, long way from the girl who had cried out to Gareth Simmonds to make her a woman.
'When will you be free to have dinner with me?' she heard Jean Claude asking her.
'Not this week, I'm afraid,' she told him firmly.
'But cherie, I have missed you. It has been so long...'
Louise laughed.
'Stop trying to flatter me, Jean Claude,' she warned him, ignoring his mock-hurt protests. 'Look, I know very well that there are scores of women besides me in your life, so don't try to tell me that you've been spending your evenings alone and lonely at home…'
She could almost feel his ego expanding as she spoke. Despite his intelligence, Jean Claude was a particularly vain man, and Louise had already discovered that it was always easy to appeal
to him through his vanity. That vulnerability in him, though, didn't mean that he couldn't be extremely shrewd and perceptive on occasion. He had already challenged her to disprove to him that the reason she had not, so far, gone to bed with him was because emotionally there was another man in her heart, if not in her life. But she wasn't going to resurrect that particular argument right now.
'My boss has a big meeting in the morning, which could drag on, and then there's a formal dinner at night...'
'The committee which is to look into the fishing rights of the Arctic seas—yes, I know,' Jean Claude acknowledged. 'Our governments will be on opposite sides on this matter, I suspect.'
Louise laughed.
'Perhaps we shouldn't see one another for a while, then,' she teased him. 'Just in case!'
To her surprise, instead of sharing her laughter, Jean Claude's voice became unusually grave as he told her, 'This is an extremely serious matter for us, cherie. Our fishermen need to be able to fish in those waters. Yours...'
Louise could almost see him giving that small Gallic shrug he so frequently made.
'Yours have an area of sea—of seas—to fish which far exceeds the land mass which is your country…'
'A legacy from the days when Britannia ruled the waves,' Louise joked ruefully, but Jean Claude continued to remain serious.
'Such colonialist views are not considered acceptable in these modern times petite', he reminded her. 'And jf you would accept a word of warning from me I would suggest that you do not voice them too publicly. There are many nations based here in Brussels who consider that they have good reason to resent what they view as British tyranny and oppression...'
It was on the tip of Louise's tongue to point out mildly that the French, along with the Dutch, and the Portuguese, come to that, had all been equally vigorous at some stage of their history in pursuing the acquisition of new colonies, lands and seas over which they staked ownership, but Jean Claude's serious tone prevented her, and besides, as she had often noticed, sensationally handsome and attentive though he was, for her tastes the Frenchman lacked one vitally important virtue: he had virtually no sense of humour.
'It's going to be next week before I can see you, Jean Claude,' she told him instead.
'Very well...then I shall ring you next week. Although we could always be together later...after your dinner is over...' He started to purr meaningfully.
Louise laughed.
'Spend the night with you, you mean... Non. Non, non...'
'Now you say non, but one day soon you will say oui, and not just to spend the night with me,' he warned her, and she could hear the smile of satisfaction in his voice as she laughed and said her goodbyes.
'You're wrong, Jean Claude,' she murmured to herself as she replaced the receiver. Attractive though he was, she was in no danger of being tempted to join his long list of lovers.
'Oh, but you are so cold,' he had complained the last time she had refused him. 'Cold outside, but I think very, very hot inside. Very, very hot...' he had whispered as he had attempted to deepen the passion of the kiss they were sharing.
'Why so bashful?' he had added when she had gently, but firmly, disengaged herself from him. 'You are a woman of very great attractiveness, Louise, and I cannot be the first to tell you so—nor the first man to take you to bed...'
'YOU haven't taken me to bed,' Louise had felt bound to remind him.
'Not yet,' he had agreed, adding wickedly, 'But I shall...and very soon.' His voice had deepened as his hand reached out to stroke her breast.
Deftly Louise had manoeuvred herself away from him and opened the door of his car.
He was right about one thing. He was not the first to have wanted to take her to bed, but...
'Oh, no... No,' Louise told herself fiercely. 'I'm not going through all that again. I'm not travelling down that road...thinking those thoughts...'
Wasn't it one of the first signs of long-term spinsterdom when one started talking to oneself...?
Spinsterdom... It was an old-fashioned, very non- politically correct and out-of-favour word, with all its unkind connotations and in-built prejudices. But a spinster was, after all, what she was, and what she was likely to remain...
By choice, she reminded herself fiercely. By choice. By the expression of her free will because... because...
'Stop that,' she told herself sternly, reminding herself mundanely, 'You've got to be up early in the morning!'
CHAPTER FIVE
'LOUISE. Good!' her boss greeted her as she hurried into Louise's office. 'I'm glad you're here early.'
'I thought you'd want me to brief you on the possible legal complexities of this proposed change in fishing rights.'
'Yes, yes, I do,' Pam Carlisle agreed. 'But I also want you to accompany me to this morning's meeting. Things have changed rather a lot since we first discussed the matter. For a start, there's been a good deal of political argument brought up by some of the other committee members over the fact that the proposed Chair, Gareth Simmonds, is British, and of course the existing fishing rights are also British.'
'Yes... Yes, so I understand,' Louise agreed tensely, keeping her face averted from her boss as she fiddled with some papers on her desk.
'You know? But how?'
'My sister told me, and as it happens Gareth Simmonds was on the same flight as me. I... He was my tutor for a while when I was up at Oxford,' Louise explained brusquely. There—it was said...out...over and done with.
'Oh, you know Gareth, then.' Pam beamed at her. 'We're most frightfully lucky to have had him agree to accept the Chair, and, as I've already pointed out to the other committee members, they simply couldn't have a chairperson who could be less biased. Well, if he was your tutor you must know that. He really is the most— It's just as well I'm a very happily married woman,' she told Louise frankly, with a wide grin. 'I can tell you, Louise, when he smiled at me I could practically feel myself melting. His students must have fallen for him like ninepins, poor man...'
'Poor man? Why poor man?' Louise asked, rather more sharply than she had intended, she could see, as Pam gave her a puzzled look.
'Oh, dear, Lou, have I trodden on an Achilles' heel?' She asked, with amusement. 'Did you have a bit of a thing for him while you were an undergrad?'
'No. I most certainly did not,' Louise denied vehemently, her colour suddenly very high and her eyes spitting sparks of anger. 'If you want the truth...' She paused, only too well aware of the danger she was running into.
'Yes...?' Pam prompted.
'Oh, nothing,' Louise hedged. 'Look, I've produced a list of possible points that may be raised, and, of course, there's always the chance that we're going to have that old accusation of colonialism thrown at us...'
'Colonialism...?' Pam raised her eyebrows. 'Well, I suppose you could be right, and it's certainly best to be prepared for everything.'
Louise, who knew the situation equally as well as her boss, nodded. 'It's going to be my job to persuade the committee that we need to keep fishing quotas down and retain as much control over our fishing rights as we can. It's not going to be easy...'
'No,' Louise agreed. 'I've read up as much as I can on maritime law, and, of course, all the other legal facts that cover the situation. I've prepared several briefs for you on the subject, and I'm also getting hold of translations of the law and legal histories that the other committee countries are likely to be using as counter-arguments.'
'Mmm...looks like I'm going to be doing an awful lot of reading.'
'Well, I'll condense as much of it as I can, and, of course, if a point is raised that needs further exploration...'
'You'll deal with it. Yes, I know you will, Lou. Have I told you recently, by the way, what a treasure you are? When Hugh first recommended you to me I admit I was rather dubious., .but he convinced me that you would be up to the job and he was more than right.'
Hugh Crighton was Saul's father, her grandfather's half-brother. Initially a barrister, and now a
semi- retired judge, he lived in Pembrokeshire with his wife Ann, and it was from living in a coastal area that he had become acquainted with the European MP Pam Carlisle, for whom Louise now worked.
Originally, when she had been offered the job, Louise had resentfully assumed that this was her uncle Hugh's way of getting her out of his son's life. But at a family gathering Hugh had taken her on one side and told her gently, 'I know what you're thinking, Lou, but you're wrong. Yes, I do think it's a good idea for you and Saul to have some distance between you, and for Tullah and Saul to be allowed to build their new life together, but I also happen to think that you're ideally suited for this kind of work. You've got the right kind of fighting spirit it needs.'
'I wanted to be a barrister,' Louise had reminded him.
'Yes, I know,' he had acknowledged. 'But, my dear Lou, you're too hot-blooded and—'
'Too hot-tempered,' she had supplied angrily for him.
'Spirited,' he had amended. 'A crusader...a leader. You need the kind of challenge this work specifically will provide.'
And, of course, he had been right, and if she was honest, the thought of practising law in the dry, dusty courts of the European legal system did not appeal to her any more.
'You just want to be a barrister so that you can prove to Gramps that you're better than Max,' Joss had commented calmly at that same gathering. 'But it's all right, Lou,' he had told her in a kind voice. 'We all know that you are better...'
Better... What did that mean? she wondered now. What had happened to the young woman who had declared that if she couldn't have Saul then all she wanted in compensation was to be materially successful, to make her mark in the world? Why was she suddenly beginning to feel that there might be something missing from her life, that there might be someone missing from it?
'Lou? Are you all right...?'
'Yes. Yes, I'm fine,' she assured Pam Carlisle, swiftly gathering up the papers she would need as she prepared to follow her out to the waiting car.
