The Trouble with Trent!

by Jessica Steele

  Oh, for goodness' sake! Talk about being mixed-up since she had known him! She closed her eyes again. Then opened them. If she did go and get into his bed, could that be counted as fulfilling her part of the bargain?

  She knew it could not, and knew her love for him was making her have some weird ideas. And yet, as minute after wearying minute dragged by, with sleep still evading her, she became so caught up in the need for rest that when the clock showed one fifty-six, Alethea got out of bed and went along the landing to Trent's room.

  She opened the door. The room was in darkness but there was enough light from the streetlamps outside for her to make out the double bed. She went over to it. She needed sleep. She felt quite desperately in need of it. In need of rest from her head. Perhaps in Trent's bed she might find the rest she sought.

  Alethea hesitated only briefly, then quickly got in. He would never know. She closed her eyes and felt comfortable. A kind of peace washed over her. She snuggled down under the duvet. Trent! Close to him Her last waking thought was Trent. He would never know.

  She had been solidly asleep; she had slept so little just lately. Then something disturbed her. She opened her eyes and was puzzled. There was a small light glowing behind her. She couldn't remember switching on a bedside lamp.

  Realising that she must have done, Alethea went to turn over with the intention of switching it off—and nearly fainted with shock. She was not alone in bed.

  Jet-propelled, she half sat up, about to rocket from the bed—only Trent was faster. An arm shot out around her and she fought a losing battle trying to get free, not only of his arm but of the tangled up duvet.

  `Shh. It's all right. You've nothing to panic about.' `You shouldn't be here!' she gasped—oh, God, that was his line!

  `I'm glad I am,' Trent teased—and she felt an edge of calm. So much for him never knowing that she had slept in his bed!

  Although her heart was beating against her ribs ten to the dozen, it was wonderful to see him Just the mere fact of him being here banished all those lonesome restless emotions that had so achingly plagued her.

  `I'd —er —better go,' she mumbled, suddenly starting to become conscious that she was wearing one of her flimsiest nighties and that, in twisting about the way she had, her nightie had twisted too, so that both straps were loose on her shoulders and threatening to fall. That was without mentioning that, when she did take her eyes from Trent's dear face—oh, how she loved him—she realised his chest was naked and he probably hadn't much, if anything, on under the duvet.

  But Trent's arm stayed in place around her over the duvet. 'Don't rush off, stay and talk to me for a while,' he urged her calmly.

  `It's the middle of the night!'

  `If you're going to be precise about it, it's ten past three in the morning.'

  `There you are!' she exclaimed, and made another unsuccessful attempt to get free of his arm, before curiosity got the better of her. 'I didn't expect you home before the weekend. You said you'd be away three weeks.'

  `I finished my work sooner than expected and caught an earlier flight.'

  `Oh, are you hungry?' she asked, getting some weird idea that to go to the kitchen to fix him something would be a way of getting out of this room with her dignity intact.

  `I could be. What are you offering?' he asked politely. But, on looking into his eyes, Alethea saw that there was mischief dancing there.

  `Oh, you!' she grumbled impatiently.

  How in creation was she going to get back to her own room with her skimpy nightie riding up around her thighs! To complete her embarrassment, one of her shoulder straps chose just that precise moment to flop down.

  Before she could reach it, however, Trent's hand was there, pushing the offending strap back in place. 'Thank you,' she murmured chokily, a tingle shooting through her at his touch. She desperately needed to get out of his bed, out of his room. Yet, even more desperately, as a face-saving exercise, she needed a reason for being in his bed in the first place. Hot-water bottle burst? In the heat of summer! I —er—hope you don't mind me using your—er —bed,' she began.

  `I've been hoping for it,' Trent answered, and she loved him so much. Even when there must be questions he could find to ask, he was not asking them. Plus, when the situation she was in offered him everything, he was not taking advantage, but was staying teasing, good-humoured.

  `It's the first time I've used your bed,' she informed him by the way of an explanation.

  She loved him all the more when, as easily as before, he instructed her gently, 'Don't worry about it. There isn't a problem.' Oh, Trent! Then he smiled. 'I've been—looking forward to seeing you. It's a bonus to have you here to talk to and not have to wait until morning to see you.'

  He could have no idea what it meant to her to hear him say he had been looking forward to seeing her.

  `That's ... Well ...' She coughed, and tried to string another sentence together. If only she'd thought to bring her housecoat with her! But she hadn't, and if she went to snatch the duvet off him to drape it around herself, then she was fairly sure that would leave him stark naked. Oh, grief, grief, grief! 'I don't suppose you'll be going to work very early, but—um—I'll have to be up at my usual time,' she tried, adding primly, `If you'd like to put the light out, I'll ...'

  `Oh, Miss Modesty, you're wonderful,' Trent tormented her. She couldn't take any more of it. Flimsy nightie or not, she was leaving. She went to get out of bed in a rush, but was again stopped as Trent relented and, placing a warm hand on her shoulder, asked, `Before you go, may I have a hello kiss?'

  With his hand burning on her shoulder, Alethea couldn't find her voice to answer. Trent took her silence to mean that she had no objection. She felt the pressure of his hand on her shoulder increase and knew as his head started to come nearer that she wanted him to kiss her; she was starved for his kisses.

  Which was probably why what should have been a brief kiss of greeting became more than a mere touching of lips. For, as his mouth touched hers, Alethea raised a hand to his shoulder and found she could not push him away—she did not want to push him away. And it seemed while she could not pull away, Trent could not break from her either.

  She heard him give a strangled kind of groan, then, while they were both sitting there in that big bed, Trent gathered her into his arms, and their kiss deepened.

  All her thinking power departed as Trent held her close. Alethea clung to him. She had missed him, missed him so much. She loved him; nothing else mattered.

  Trent kissed her again, more deeply this time, and her heart started to sing. She kissed him back. Held onto him as his hands caressed her back. It was bliss to let her hands rove too, feeling muscle, skin, warmth.

  Again he kissed her and, while clinging to him, she was only vaguely aware that the straps of her nightdress presented no problem to his scientific mind. Unexpectedly, she realised it was around her waist; the top half of her was as uncovered as Trent's.

  `Sweet Alethea,' he breathed, pulling her close up against him She heard him groan again when her warm, swollen breasts came up against his hair-tufted chest. `Alethea, Alethea.' He called her name and she gloried in the feel of him

  With the next kiss he moved her a little away from him, but only so that his hands and sensitive fingers could caress the front of her. She felt him capture her breasts and she wanted more—much, much more.

  `Trent,' she cried his name.

  `Don't be alarmed,' he breathed gently, his mouth moving to her ear.

  I'm not alarmed, she wanted to tell him, but couldn't, so she bent her head and kissed his neck. She felt his grip on her tighten and she had an urge to stroke his chest.

  She bent her head, and he pulled back a little to allow her access to whatever pleased her. Alethea kissed his nipples; it seemed right to do so. Then she raised her tousled blonde head and found she was looking, quite unashamedly, into Trent's dark eyes—eyes that seemed to smoulder fiercely with barely checked desire.

  `You're so b
eautiful,' he breathed, then, as if he needed to be even closer to her, he manoeuvred her to

  lie down and, with his warm, naked body half covering her, he kissed her.

  The fire in her spiralled out of control when Trent transferred his kisses to the pink-tipped hardened peaks of her breasts. Somehow her nightdress had disappeared from her waist and she knew herself to be as naked as he.

  His kisses, the erotic movements of his mouth over her breast as he captured some of its fullness in his mouth, moulded it with his tongue before slowing, allowing it to slide away, then capturing it again, and once more slowly letting her breast glide from the warm firmness of his mouth, caused her to be unaware of anything save him and this urgent need he had aroused in her.

  She knew that she wanted him, was his for the taking. Indeed, she felt she would beg him to take her if he did not do so soon. But, when Trent stopped tantalising her breast with his mouth and kissed her, while she held onto him and gloried that the supreme moment would soon be here, and Trent placed a caressing hand on her behind and eased her back against him, some belated modesty caused her to jerk back.

  `I'm sorry,' she said at once, and would have gone on to ask Trent to forgive that moment of shyness, only suddenly he stilled and, instead of pulling her close up against him as she anticipated he would, he gave a groan of a sound, let go of her and moved from her.

  She didn't understand it, nor did she understand it when he moved further away, no part of their bodies touching now, and sat up.

  H-have I offended you?' she asked, and loved him so. As he looked down at her and then to her hardened pink-tipped breasts fully exposed to his view, he took

  hold of the duvet and tenderly covered her from his gaze. But she loved him

  `Alethea,' he said slowly; he still desired her; she just knew it. 'That was one hell of a kiss hello.' He paused for a brief moment, then went firmly on, 'But, as you yourself said, you have to be up for work in a few hours' time.'

  She stared at him, not comprehending. She was quite desperate for him and she was sure he wanted her. 'I ...' she began, on her way to telling him that she did not understand. But Trent turned from her.

  She watched as he switched off the bedside lamp—it was as if he had slapped her. She, in her naïveté, had got it wrong. He had wanted her, but no longer did. Trent wasn't verbally telling her to get out of his bed but, by switching off that lamp, was intent on making it easy for her to leave.

  She was certain of it when, as she turned back the duvet, he made no attempt to stop her from leaving. She felt too choked to speak. She left, went quickly, fearing her pride might be split asunder if she could not hold down her tears before she got to her room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Alethea did not cry, though she came exceedingly close. Back in her room she snatched a fresh nightdress from a drawer and got into bed, but she did not sleep. How could she sleep? She had much too much on her mind.

  Over and over again she relived how willingly, how ardently she had returned Trent's kisses. There could not have been the smallest shred of doubt in his mind that she had wanted him to make love to her.

  And what had been his response? After making her barely restrained with need for him, he had moved away from her. 'You have to be up for work in a few hours' time,' he had reminded her.

  But the whole point of her living in his home was because he wanted her in his bed. So why, by virtue of switching off that table-lamp, had he turfed her out of it?

  It didn't make sense. Why would ...? Abruptly her thoughts stopped. She gasped and nearly sank under the enormity of what had just come to her. It didn't make sense—unless Trent had suddenly realised that she was head over heels in love with him

  Oh, no! Everything in her shied away from that possibility. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. He had desired her; she knew that without question. So why else, when—shaming but true—she had been his for the taking, had he decided to deny his own need? Lord, Trent hadn't been looking for that sort of

  complication. To have her fall in love with him was something for which he would have no time.

  Alethea was still in the agonising throes of trying to believe that she had not given herself away, when her alarm went off.

  Quickly she silenced it, not wanting to disturb Trent in the next-door room. Then she heard a sound that told her Trent was already awake. She realised that the sound she heard came not from Trent's room, but from the door of her own.

  And Alethea, save for being aware that she had suddenly gone scarlet, didn't quite know how she felt when Trent entered her room.

  He was robe-clad, and came towards her bearing a cup of tea on a tray. 'You should be asleep!' She found her voice in a hurry as he put down the tray.

  `That's the thanks I get,' he drawled easily, his eyes on her as he came and sat on the edge of her bed.

  Her heart was thundering away but she made herself meet his eyes. 'Thank you,' she mumbled, and all at once became aware that the nightdress she had on covered her little better than the one she had left in his room.

  Hurriedly she tugged the duvet higher up her chest, and came close to disliking Trent de Havilland when she observed he was watching her attempt to cover herself with some amusement. Oh, that she'd been so modest last night!

  `You're sensational, even when you're blushing,' he said gently.

  `Trent, I...' Oh, grief, her brain was all over the place. What could she say?

  `I shouldn't tease you.' He saved her from having to say anything. But he managed to terrify her nonetheless

  when his teasing manner was replaced by a deadly serious look. 'Alethea, I think we should talk.'

  Oh, no! He knew that she loved him! Or, did he? Some part of her brain activated sufficiently for her to be able to reason that, since Trent wasn't telling her to pack her bags and leave, but was saying they should talk, perhaps he hadn't seen how she had fallen so utterly to pieces over him.

  But her nerves were still jumping and she couldn't think very straight. She needed to think. 'I have to be at work for nine,' she said on a rush. She wasn't ready to talk. In fact, she doubted that she ever would be ready.

  `Not now,' Trent agreed. Clearly, whatever it was he thought they should talk about, he wasn't about to have any kind of hurried conversation. 'Tonight,' he decreed, without compromise.

  `Er—very well,' Alethea agreed. And weathered his long, hard stare, before he got up and left her to it.

  Alethea didn't know whether she was glad or sorry that that Tuesday at her office proved so busy she was fully occupied with work problems and had no time to give consideration to her own.

  At ten past five Carol Robinson put down her pen. `Flap over!' she smiled at Alethea. 'What a day!'

  `I've known quieter ones,' Alethea agreed as they tidied their desks.

  She was in her car and on her way to Trent's home when she all at once knew that she wasn't ready to see him yet. She wasn't ready to talk, not until she'd had some time to try and analyse what it was he wanted to talk about.

  She had detoured to her basement flat before she could think further. She made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea and sat down, stood up, and then started to walk around

  restlessly. She needed calm. An hour went by, but her thoughts were still going around in the same wearying circle.

  Trent was sharp, astute. Oh, had she given away that she loved him? She would like to think that she hadn't. But she just didn't know. Another hour went by.

  Her tea was stone-cold. She went and made another cup. Knowing Trent, despite not having flown in until the early hours—oh, she didn't want to be reminded! — he would probably still show his face at his office that day. And, knowing the work hours he kept, he wouldn't be home for ages yet ...

  Someone ringing her doorbell startled her out of her thoughts. Oh, grief. She did hope it wasn't Nick. Not that she'd arranged to see him. She needed space. Perhaps it was a neighbour come to pay a friendly visit. She hadn't met
any of her neighbours yet.

  Alethea went to the door—and nearly dropped with shock. It wasn't Nick and it wasn't a neighbour. 'Trent!' she exclaimed, not sure she wasn't crimson again. Her insides were an instant clamour, that was for certain. `Er—come in,' she invited belatedly, standing back. What was he doing there? The question screamed in her brain as, fumbling the catch, she closed the door and led the way into her sitting room. At that precise moment she couldn't ever remember telling him where her flat was!

  `You seem to be comfortably settled here,' he commented evenly.

  Was there an underlying tough note there? As if he wasn't exactly thrilled to have to come looking for her? Her heartbeat quickened—what did he want to talk about that was so important? Something that meant he'd come

  here rather than wait? 'Ac-actually, it's Maxine's furniture—mostly,' she said nervously. 'She said I—' She broke off, realising she was babbling on. Swiftly she did what she could to get a grip on herself. `Um—did I tell you where this flat was?'

  Trent scrutinised her face, seeming to note every nuance in her expression. She felt vulnerable, wide open. `You didn't—your sister did.'

  `My s... Maxine. You've been in touch with Maxine?' Alethea stared at him incredulously.

  `I thought I might when you showed no signs of coming home,' he answered succinctly.

  `You rang her?' Alethea asked quickly, not caring particularly what she said, provided it kept him from wondering why she hadn't gone straight back to his place.

  `I rang your old home. Your sister answered and said you didn't live there any more.'

  `She gave you this address without question?'

  `I explained I'd been out of the country for a while and would like to contact you. Your sister seemed to think she owed me a small favour.' Bearing in mind what Trent had done for Maxine and her family, a small favour was the least Maxine owed him But ... 'Tell me, Alethea —what are you afraid of?' he asked.