Touched me, she thought, half wanting to pull free of his grip on her elbow, half wanting to lean into him, to feel the strength of him, the reassurance she knew was there. Touched me, she thought again. That’s all you did and it isn’t fair. But when she spoke, guilt combined with her earlier, unreasoned, illogical jealousy to make her waspish, irritable.
‘You have nothing to do with … with any of this,’ she snapped. ‘You aren’t even supposed to be here; you have a date for a nightcap, unless you’ve forgotten.’
‘Ah…’ Fingers that had seemed to be clamped on her elbow as if welded there now slackened, although he continued to guide her gently, keeping her with him as they approached the vehicle.
But that was all he said, and the resultant silence fuelled her guilt, brought her inner turmoil to boiling point. She had been a fool to enter that darkened park, perhaps had been a fool to set off by herself in the first place, but…
‘I fail to see that it’s any of your business that I decided to walk back and get my car,’ she said, forcing herself to stop now so that she pull free of his grip.
‘I am not in the habit of taking girls for dinner and then letting them walk home or … wherever,’ he replied calmly, reaching out to open the vehicle’s door as they paused before it. ‘And I’m not about to start now. In, please.’
‘I would prefer to walk; really, I would,’ she insisted, more for the principle than the fact. The incident at the park was quite insignificant, but it had spooked her just a little, however much she tried to deny it to herself.
‘In.’
No room to argue now; black eyes glared into her own and one hand pointed to the vehicle’s interior while the other coiled loosely around her waist, effectively preventing any escape.
Saunders obeyed, reluctantly, only too aware of his hand at her elbow as he assisted her up into the passenger seat, even more aware of how quickly he moved around to his own side, sliding into the driver’s seat with a fluid, cat-like movement, fingers flying to insert the key in the ignition, then to a nearby switch. She heard the snick of the door beside her locking.
‘Now,’ he said, and now his voice was ragged, but no longer quite so gentle, quite so calm. There was the throb of anger there now, anger and … something else she couldn’t decipher, but knew, instinctively, she wasn’t going to appreciate.
‘Now?’
She kept her own voice soft, neutral, trying to cover her uncertainty and knowing from the look in those dark eyes that she wasn’t managing very well.
‘Yes, Nurse White. Now!’ he said, his eyes unreadable, but shining, she thought, with unholy glee. One strong hand reached over to pick up her fingers, which he examined as if they were something rare, unusual, valuable.
His touch was half caress, half some other sort of gesture, but Saunders couldn’t figure out just what. All she knew was that her pulse raced because of it, then raced even faster when he lifted his eyes and began using them to caress her face, her mouth, her entire being, without saying another word.
‘I would like it clearly understood that I do not take a girl for dinner and then leave her to find her own way home, regardless of … unexpected interruptions,’ he finally said, softly, quietly, almost musingly, as if he was really talking to himself, not her. ‘But that isn’t the point; the point is why you felt this strong a gesture was really necessary.’
And now his eyes were definitely glinting, reaching out to capture her gaze, forcing a response, demanding it.
‘I think you’re making far too much of this,’ Saunders replied calmly, denying the racing blood that throbbed at her temples, trying to ignore the way his fingers now traced intricate little designs along her wrist.
‘Am I?’ His grin was slow, deliberate. ‘I suppose now you’ll say that you’d planned to walk back anyway, that Nadine’s arrival had nothing to do with it.’
‘If I’d known you already had a date, I wouldn’t have gone for dinner with you in the first place,’ she replied, deliberately ignoring the fact that getting some ‘proper’ food had been mostly her idea. ‘If Miss … whatever-her-name-is was upset by it, I’m not surprised; I’d be upset too if I had made plans to meet you and then found you’d wandered off with some other girl.’
And you’re starting to sound and act like a lovesick, jealous teenager, she thought. You’ve got no claim here and you don’t even want one; there’s nothing here for you.
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you might be showing just the teensiest bit of the old green-eyed monster,’ he said, and his eyes laughed as his fingers moved along her forearm, their touch a tantalising, dangerously seductive message.
‘You … you … conceited, arrogant, insufferable…’ Saunders could only stammer helplessly at the audacity of it. She yanked her arm away from his fingers, those fingers whose touch had been so seductive only a moment ago, but now … now…
Ford Landell looked down at his hand, looked at her, turned his hand over and looked at it again, his entire expression one of surprise and amusement, then of mock indignation-the look of a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
‘You’re a funny girl,’ he said, shaking his head and then deliberately, primly, folding his hands in his lap. But there was nothing prim about the look in his eyes; he was laughing at her and no mistake about that!
‘Fine,’ she said, after a moment of trying to dominate him with her glare and failing miserably. ‘So I’m funny. Well, when you’re finished laughing, Mr Irresistible Landell, perhaps you’d like to drive me back to my car so that I can go home and be funny in peace. Or at least have the decency to let me out of here so that I can walk back, as I originally intended.’
His gust of laughter was unexpected, but nothing compared to his reply.
‘If you’re going to insist on acting like a lovesick, jealous teenager,’ he said, and Saunders flinched inwardly at his use of her own thoughts against her, ‘you have to expect to be laughed at. I mean, really, Nurse,’ he continued, shaking his head in mock sorrow, ‘it’s all right to get in a royal snit and walk out on somebody, I guess, but the whole thing loses a lot of impact when you start walking in the wrong direction!’
And as she stared at him, horrified at the realisation that he was undeniably, embarrassingly, humiliatingly right, he laughed again, then leaned over and kissed her.
It started off, she had the remaining sense to realise, as a friendly, even a sharing kiss, the type she might have expected had Ford been laughing with her instead of at her. But, as their lips met, something happened. Ford’s lips touched hers, gently searching her mouth for a response, then moved away again, only to be replaced by fingers almost as feather-soft, almost as searching.
Saunders felt his thumb on one side of her mouth, his fingers on the other, looked up to sec those black, black eyes only inches away, felt his left arm move, lift, drop back to encircle her shoulders as he turned her to meet another kiss.
And this kiss was different! As their mouths united, she found herself leaning into the kiss, savouring the taste of his breath, the texture of his tongue as it probed the softness of her lips. She heard his voice sighing, felt his breath go all ragged as her own became even more so, felt warm tendrils of sensation that seemed to flow from his lips to her own, then down along the inside of her, until they formed a starburst somewhere about her middle.
His fingers had left her cheek now, were moving along the line of her neck, probing at the neckline of the dress, flitting along the soft swell of her breasts. His lips followed, leaving behind a haunting moan, then only the memory of that as he kissed her along the joining of her collarbones, his lips moving hungrily, his tongue following, then leading as her own breath soared into a moan of her own.
When his hand touched at her breast, lifting, cupping, caressing, she knew his mouth must follow, knew she wanted that, was already thrusting herself against the pressure of his lips, the warmth of his breath, as he kissed, explored, touched.
Her right hand was trapped between them; her left was no longer in the command of her brain. She was aware of it moving along the muscular line of his shoulder, felt the harsh texture of his coarse hair against her fingers, And as he shifted imperceptibly in his seat the trapped hand scrambled for its freedom, wandering unguided along the strength of his thigh, feeling the warmth of him through the knife-edge crease of his trousers.
She felt his breath catch at her touch, both felt and heard the sigh that whispered against her lips.
Now her dress was off her shoulders, her breasts exposed fully to his touch, to his kisses, to the delights of his tongue flicking her nipples to an almost painful stiffening.
‘I want you,’ he whispered. ‘Oh … lord, how I want you.’
Saunders could not reply; his mouth moved to capture her own before she had any chance to think of the right words, even to assume there could be any right words. She knew that her needs matched his, her desire matched his, but there were no words to answer him: only her body could do that.
And it did! When his fingers roamed down the front of her, playing a tune along her rib-cage, teasing the flat planes of her tummy, her body arched against the pressures. When his fingers roamed beneath the looseness of her skirt, whispering along the fabric of her tights, her muscles drummed to a tune of their own, tightening to hold his hand just there, flexing loose to speed his journey, guide him.
Then they reached their destination, only to be halted by the barrier of the tights — was that his moan of disappointment or hers? Whose was the voice in her head that raged at him to rip away the barrier, to touch her, possess her, reach the very core of her being?
Whose voice? No, voices, she realised with surprise a moment or a lifetime later! Saunders opened her eyes as she was suddenly released from Ford’s arms. The appearance of a group of strolling teenagers across the street, too far away to see her disarray, yet certainly near enough to comprehend the situation — their cheery shouts of approval proved that! — had shattered the intimacy of the moment as if it were glass.
Ford’s mood changed in the instant, and although Saunders sensed immediately that his anger was more in her defence, more at her potential embarrassment than anything else, the swiftness of the change was daunting.
‘No!’ Her objection sprang from lips that still tingled from his kisses, from a mind that still spun from the ecstasy of his caresses but now recoiled from the grim expression in eyes that an instant before had been soft with… She didn’t care with what; she only wanted now to forestall the violence she could see erupting. Even the youths must have sensed it; their voices changed, the postures became defensive, and they moved on as Ford’s hand reached for the door-handle.
‘No!’ she said again, daring to reach out, to grip at his other arm, pulling him round to face her. The bleakness of his eyes now was frightening, even to her, but to her surprise it faded even as he looked at her.
‘Please…’
‘Of course,’ he replied, and his fingers flew to the ignition, his feet to the proper pedals.
They drove in silence through the forever it took to reach Saunders’ car. Ford Landell kept his eyes on the road ahead, his expression rigid. Only the faint pulsing of his jaw muscles as he fought back his anger and frustration revealed how tense he was inside. Saunders busied herself in straightening her clothing; she felt shamed, disorientated, confused. Words tumbled through her mind, emotions tumbled with even less order through her entire being, but she said nothing, could say nothing.
‘I’m sorry for that; it was my fault,’ he said when they finally parked on the street behind her car.
Saunders didn’t reply. She was already yanking at the door-handle, angry now at the humiliation, frustrated by the fact that the door on her side was still locked, by the fact that her fingers shook so badly, that her entire body was trembling.
Caught necking in the car like a couple of teenagers? she was thinking, and shivered visibly. His fault? She silently cursed the body that had betrayed her, the body that still held the imprint of his touch, of his caresses. Her lips felt puffy, would be puffy, she knew, and her knees were trembling so badly she wondered if she would be able to walk when she did get out.
‘I…’ A hand reached out to touch lightly at her cheek, ignoring how she flinched away. Black, black eyes glistened, drinking her in. ‘My God, but you’re lovely.’
The words were a whisper, softer even than his touch. Then he laughed, and it was a growl of laughter, coloured bitter and black as his eyes.
‘Caught necking like a couple of kids,’ he said, and the words emerged in a sort of chuckle that held black, bitter humour.
Necking? She had thought that, but deep inside she knew it had been far more than that. Had they been somewhere else, had the situation been different, the circumstances different, necking would have been the least concern.
‘I … I have to go,’ she finally managed to say. She didn’t want to discuss this, didn’t want to think about it, even to remember it, although she knew she would always do that. ‘Now, please.’
‘Shall I follow you home, see that you’re … all right?’
‘Why?’ Her voice had shrilled; she could feel it, knew he could hear it. ‘Why? So you can have another kick at the cat?’
‘Saunders … really…’
‘Let me out!’
He started to speak again; she cut him off. Abruptly. Angrily. Vicious in her choice of words, her tone of voice.
‘You have somewhere else to go, I seem to remember,’ she sneered, feeling triumphant for whatever reason as she heard the snick of the lock releasing beside her, felt the door-handle move in her fingers.
‘I hope you enjoy your … your nightcap; you ought to be just about warmed up for it,’ she snapped, and was out of the door, slamming it behind her against the sound of his reply.
‘Damn the nightcap!’
He was out of his own door, striding ahead to grip her arm as she leaned down to search with her key for the lock. His fingers were like a steel clamp, lifting her, turning her to face him.
‘I want to see you again, Saunders,’ he said. ‘This thing isn’t going to stop here; I won’t let it, I…’
‘You what? Let me go!’
She raged against his grip, tore free, reached again to insert the key. This time his fingers flashed down to snatch the keys from her fingers; she turned to find him holding them high out of reach.
‘Give me those!’
‘Not until you settle down. You’re not fit to drive when you’re this upset.’
‘I’ll give you upset! Damn you … give me my keys!’
‘Are you going to listen to me?’ His voice now was calm, too much so. His eyes had a look she couldn’t interpret, didn’t dare to!
‘You have nothing to say that I’m interested in hearing,’ she replied angrily. ‘Now, will you please just give me my keys? It’s late and I would like to go home … by myself!’
‘When am I going to see you again?’
‘Try never’
Ford shook his head, half sadly and, she suspected, half in jest.
‘You can’t mean that. There was too much between us back there just to … toss it all away.’
‘There was nothing between us you couldn’t arrange just as easily by giving me my damned keys and going off to your … your date,’ she insisted, reaching up in a gesture that she knew was futile before she made it.
‘I didn’t have a date,’ he roared, stretching higher, looming over her now. ‘Get that straight, Saunders White. I did not have a date! I had an understanding … a … a…’
‘Look,’ she said, returning his glare, "I don’t care if you call it a date, an understanding, or a flying pink pig. Just give me my keys and get on with it, whatever it is!’
‘The only date I had, actually, was with you,’ he replied in a voice strangely soft, unexpectedly calm after his earlier outburst.
And then, even more surprisingly, he acquiesced. ‘
Have it your way, then,’ he said, handing her the keys with a shrug. ‘Drive carefully, Saunders,’ he added, eyes now totally unreadable but strangely sad-looking. ‘You’re much too pretty to waste.’
CHAPTER SIX
Saunders stared into the mirror, hardly able to recognise the naked woman with the mad tangle of windblown hair and puffy, wounded eyes that returned her gaze with astonishing calmness.
Behind her on the bathroom floor was her clothing, discarded in an untidy mess. Especially the party dress she’d hastily stripped from her body and flung away as if it had somehow betrayed her. Never, she thought, ever to be worn again.
She looked in silence at the over-slim figure before her, abstractedly noting the contours, the seemingly swollen breasts that somehow managed to keep tingling, as if reaching out for more of Ford Landell’s caresses.
But in her mind thought became voices, voices became images. She flinched inwardly at those, and at the memories. ‘Caught necking like a couple of kids.’ Her thoughts, his words. Or was it the other way round? Did it matter? It was true; that was surely enough.
The voices, the faces of the youths, floated through memory, no longer quite as humiliating, as degrading as they had seemed at the time.
‘I probably ought to thank them,’ she told the mirror girl, who didn’t seem in the least disturbed by the evening’s performance. She had an almost smug look, the puffy eyes redolent with some vague expression of self-satisfaction, of mysterious, hidden pleasure. She would have been just as pleased if the teenagers hadn’t interrupted at all, would have enjoyed continuing to share Ford’s lovemaking; she probably would have roped and hogtied him and dragged him home with her.
Saunders looked as hands lifted the reflected breasts, as fingers smoothed a path down a flat stomach that rippled in memory of a different touch, different fingers. The image grinned at her through lips that must still tingle as her own did, shrugged shoulders he had touched, had caressed, had explored with his lips and fingers.
Is it so long, then, since a man looked at you that way, made mad, passionate love to you, treated you like a woman? the image seemed to say, the words hollow, mocking, the voice somehow trembling, as did her own knees. Even worse the trembling inside her; her stomach felt hollow and empty, fluttery, and the fluttery feeling dipped lower, touching the core of her as gently as-had his fingers.
An Irresistible Flirtation Page 7
