by Lynne Graham
Yet, somehow, she did none of those things. Because she would also be fighting herself, she realised in some dazed corner of her mind. Because, to her bewilderment and eternal shame, she knew that she shared his hunger, swaying against him, her lips parting under his to allow him the access he demanded.
This can’t—this mustn’t happen. The words might echo in her head, but their warning was soon drowned by the mounting urgency in her body, in the heavy thud of her pulses, the sensation that the blood in her veins was flowing slow and sweet, like honey.
She leaned into him, welcoming the heated tangle of his tongue with hers, shivering at the glide of his hands under her sweater and across the supple line of her back. Admitting that this was what she’d wanted since the first time he’d kissed her.
Deftly, he unhooked her bra, his fingers pushing aside the loosened lace cups to encompass the warm, firm roundness of her small breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples until they stood proud and erect, making her gasp with shocked pleasure against his smile.
He pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it to the floor, sending her bra to follow it, then held her to him closely, tightly, kissing her ever more deeply.
For the first time in her life, she experienced the excitement—the incitement—of a man’s hair-roughened chest grazing her naked breasts, and she melted into him, returning his kisses with untutored ardour.
She was dizzily aware of him releasing the zip on her dark green cord skirt, pushing the fabric over her hips, and down to the ground. He lifted her free of the encumbering pool of fabric, letting her shoes fall at the same time, leaving her in nothing but her tights and briefs. Pulling her hips forward so that her body ground against his, showing in no uncertain terms that he was starkly and formidably aroused.
A demonstration, however, that also served to remind her of her own sexual inexperience and lack of sophistication.
And as if he sensed her sudden uncertainty, his hold relaxed a little. His fingers lifted to stroke the silken fall of her brown hair, then cupped the nape of her neck, bringing her mouth slowly and warmly back to his. Kissing her again, but this time softly and languorously. Endlessly.
And as he did so, his hands moved on her very gently, exploring each delicate curve and angle, his fingertips caressing her throat, her slender shoulder blades, the soft flesh of her inner arms before returning to her breasts and lifting them to the silken warmth of his mouth.
And as his tongue flickered lightly, devastatingly on the engorged rosy peaks, Ginny felt her body clench, fiercely and exquisitely, in response. Telling her that this was no longer enough.
Reminding her too that, through her own choice, the point of no return was long past.
Self-doubt forgotten, she twined her arms round his neck, burying her face in his bare shoulder as he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, tossing aside the rumpled covers, and lowering her to the mattress.
The bed dipped as he joined her, his towel now discarded, bending over her, slowly peeling away her tights and the briefs she wore beneath them, uncovering her completely to the breathtaking urgency of his hands caressing her flat abdomen, exploring the hollows of her pelvis and moving downwards to hover tantalisingly at the soft brown triangle at the joining of her thighs.
She gasped, arching towards him, as she yielded herself to this new intimacy, trembling as he began to trace a slow lingering path over the slick, wet heat of her womanhood, each sensuous movement of his fingers making her quiver with sensation, revealing within her an undreamed of capacity for arousal.
She touched him too, smoothing her fingers in wonderment across his skin, learning the unfamiliar male shape from the broad muscular shoulders down to the narrow hips and firm, flat buttocks. And he captured her hand and kissed it and brought it to his body, clasping it round his jutting hardness, letting her feel the size and strength of him stir and lift under her first tentative caresses.
At the same time his fingers were still exploring her—slowly—exquisitely. Finding her most sensitive place, and hovering there, teasing the tiny bud into swollen, aching excitement.
She gave a tiny breathless moan, looking up into his face, her eyes widening under her long lashes, as she saw his own gaze deepen in purpose and intensity. As she felt him move over her, his hands sliding under her slender flanks and lifting her to him.
His voice was a harsh whisper. ‘Take me, ma douce, ma belle.’
And she obeyed, wordlessly, guiding him to her.
Into her willing warmth...
She had not expected there to be pain, yet there was and she found herself sinking her teeth into her lower lip, in order to stifle her instinctive cry of protest. Aware just the same, that her need—her longing to know and be known—was all that truly mattered.
She gripped his shoulders, rearing up and thrusting herself against him, wrapping her slim legs round his hips, and felt her untried flesh yield in welcome as he filled her totally.
Locked with her, his mouth again joined to hers, Andre began to move, slowly at first then faster, the strong, rhythmic strokes of his body robbing her of what little self-control was left to her, and carrying her to some new level in a long dark spiral of mounting pleasure.
Oh, God, she thought, a sob rising in her throat. What was she letting him do to her—this man—half angel, half devil? As if he had always known how it would be between them? And as if she had ever had a choice?
And then coherent thought fled, and nothing was left but a fierce crescendo of wild, irresistible sensation, which, as she reached its peak, tossed her into one rippling, rapturous convulsion after another, making her cry out helplessly against his mouth.
And heard him answer her hoarsely as his own body juddered to its climax.
Afterwards, as he held her, both of them drained and spent, there was silence and a sense of great peace. She knew that there were things that must be said, but there was time for that, she thought, head cradled on his chest and her eyelids drooping wearily. All the time in the world.
And let that world quietly slip away.
* * *
She awoke slowly to darkness and for a moment lay still, completely disorientated. Her first realisation was that she ached deep inside her. Her second—that a heavy weight lay across her breasts, pinning her to the bed.
She turned her head gently, almost fearfully, and saw Andre Duchard’s dark head on the pillow beside her. Discovered that it was his arm, thrown over her body in a kind of careless possession, that was imprisoning her.
And with that, every searing memory of the past few hours returned, screaming at her, jolting her back to the terrible—the shameful reality of what she had done.
And the absolute necessity of distancing herself from him. In every possible way. Permanently. And immediately...
Moving with the utmost caution, she was able to shift his arm sufficiently to enable her to slide towards the edge of the bed. He muttered something, and she froze, but he was only turning over and didn’t wake.
Ginny didn’t dare relight the lamp, which meant she had to search around on the floor in the dark for the clothing that she’d allowed—oh, God, that she’d wanted him to strip from her—and huddle into it as best and as soundlessly as she could.
She checked her purse and keys were still safely in her coat pocket then let herself warily out into the corridor. A glance at her watch revealed to her horror that she’d been with Andre Duchard for over two and a half hours, and quite apart from the ethical implications of her behaviour, she’d missed almost the entire afternoon session at Miss Finn’s.
Although that was the least of her problems, she thought as she tiptoed down the stairs, hoping and praying there was no one at the hotel desk.
Luckily, the receptionist was again in the rear office, this time intent on her computer so Ginny was ab
le to make her escape unobserved.
As her sister had done earlier...
The thought stopped her in her tracks. She paused in the archway, leaning against the stonework, fighting the nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Because what she’d done wasn’t simply immoral—it was sheer insanity.
From the first, Andre Duchard had scarcely bothered to conceal that he despised them all. Now he had even more reason for his contempt. Because however badly Cilla had behaved, there’d been no need to emulate her.
She swallowed, making herself move. Start putting one foot in front of the other for the journey home.
She’d gone to his room supposedly seething in righteous fury on her sister’s behalf only to emerge with even greater ignominy. Because he’d seen through the indignation and angry protests and recognised, as she had not, that under all the fire and fury, what she really wanted was to get laid.
Some sexual clock she’d never suspected must have been ticking.
And he’d obliged her.
She couldn’t think of it in any other way, which was probably wise.
Two sisters in his bed in the same afternoon. Encounters that had not appeared to test his stamina at all, she thought, feeling as if shame was flaying the skin from her body.
A situation, in fact, that he might have found cynically amusing, as well as confirming his low opinion of her family, this time deservedly. Because she could condone Cilla’s behaviour even less than her own.
I’ve only harmed myself—betrayed my self-respect, she thought, feeling sick. Something I can neither explain nor excuse, but shall just have to live with, somehow.
But Cilla’s been unfaithful to Jonathan—the man she loves and plans to marry. So how can she ever forgive herself?
While Andre Duchard had the unmitigated, hypocritical gall to castigate me for that—goodnight peck, she told herself, biting at her already tender mouth.
When she got back to the house, she was thankful to find it deserted and went straight to her room.
She stripped and went into the shower, using a massage sponge soaked in gel to scrub every inch of her body, trying to remove any lingering evidence of his hands and mouth.
If only it was as easy to clear the memory of his touch from her brain, she thought as she shampooed her hair, letting the hot water cascade over her until every vestige of foam had gone. To forget how it felt to have him sheathed inside her. To erase the recollection of the pleasure, which still had the power to make her tremble.
She dried herself, rubbed scented lotion into her skin, put on her robe and then, at last, looked at herself in the mirror, wondering how to disguise the total giveaway of the haunted eyes and swollen mouth.
In a few short hours, she thought dispassionately, she had become a stranger to herself, not just physically but emotionally.
The girl whose life she’d been living for twenty-two years had never believed that the world was well lost for lust. Nor ever would.
Because lust was all it had been. Anger transmuted in the heat of the moment into another far more dangerous passion.
That other girl had hoped some day to fall in love, and to discover the joys of sex in a relationship that mattered, not to give herself unthinkingly on the well-used mattress of a hotel room on a winter afternoon to a man who was, to all intents and purposes, her enemy, whatever his surface attraction.
Because that was nothing less than degrading. And what could she say in her own defence? Plead momentary insanity?
She should have talked to her sister quietly and privately, to warn rather than sit in judgement. Darling Cilla, please—please think what you’re doing, because he’s not worth it, was what she’d have said. Trying to take care of her as always. Wouldn’t she?
Except, I hardly know any more, she thought. And I certainly don’t know the creature I became a few hours ago. She was just—a temporary aberration. Something I can’t afford.
She sighed, thinking wistfully how wonderful it would be if everyone could put the clock back—just once. Be allowed to correct a truly hideous mistake before any real damage was done.
She collected up her discarded clothes and took them downstairs. She had just filled the washing machine and set it going, when the rear door opened and Mrs Pel, in a warm coat and woollen hat, bustled in on a blast of cold air.
‘Why, Miss Ginny,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you. Did the café close early?’
‘No, I—I didn’t feel too well, so I came home.’ Ginny hoped her flush would be attributed to the warmth of the kitchen rather than telling a downright lie, which was something else she might have to get used to, she acknowledged miserably.
Mrs Pel tutted. ‘Lot of nasty viruses about,’ she said darkly. ‘Now, why don’t you go back to bed, and I’ll bring you some hot lemon.’
‘I think I’ve spent quite enough time in bed,’ said Ginny, her flush deepening as she reverted to perfect truth. ‘It would do me more good to take Barney out.’
Mrs Pel looked at her in dismay. ‘He’s not here, Miss Ginny. A man came for him first thing this morning. Said it was all arranged.’
‘Arranged?’ Ginny’s heart skipped a beat. ‘But I knew nothing about it. What’s his name?’
‘I didn’t hear it. Miss Cilla spoke to him. But he seemed pleasant enough—and got Barney into this cage in the back of his Land Rover.’
‘A cage?’ Ginny was beginning unhappily, fearing the worst, when the front door bell jangled, making Mrs Pel tut again.
‘Now who can that be?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Another lie. Because she knew who it was as surely as if he was standing in front of her. She went on quickly, ‘But Mother and Cilla are out, and I’d really rather not see anyone. So, could you say none of us are here?’ She paused. ‘Whoever it is.’
‘Of course I can.’ Mrs Pel regarded her with concern as the bell rang again. ‘You do look peaky and no mistake. You run along, and I’ll wait till you’re safely out of the way.’
Ginny didn’t go straight to her room. Instead she lingered on the galleried landing, shielded from the hall below by an antique cupboard.
She heard Mrs Pel open the door, and say with real pleasure, ‘Well, Mr Andre, this is a surprise. But I’m afraid the family are out.’
‘Mademoiselle Virginie also?’ The query was sharp.
‘All of them,’ said Mrs Pel stoutly.
There was a silence, then he said quietly, ‘Oui, je comprends.’ He paused again. ‘À demain, I have to return to France, Marguerite. Perhaps you would convey my regrets to Madame Charlton for my failure to take my leave of her.’ He added drily, ‘Although I am sure she will not find it a hardship.’
‘Well, I shall miss you, Monsieur Andre. I’m glad to know your mother found the happiness she deserved.’ It was Mrs Pel’s turn to pause. ‘Is there any message you’d like me to pass on—to anyone?’
‘Thank you, but no. At the moment, all I can say is—au revoir.’
He seemed suddenly to be speaking more loudly but maybe that was Ginny’s imagination.
‘But please believe,’ he went on, ‘that I shall be back. And soon.’
From her hiding place, Ginny heard the front door close and Mrs Pel’s footsteps returning to the kitchen.
As she straightened, she realised she was trembling again. Knowing that he hadn’t been fooled for a moment. That everything he’d said had been aimed straight at her.
‘But when you do return, Monsieur Duchard,’ she whispered under her breath, ‘you’ll find me long gone. And that’s a promise.’
CHAPTER SIX
ALTHOUGH MOVING ON was her avowed intention, Ginny hadn’t expected Fate to take her quite so literally.
She’d spent a miserable night, almost afraid to go to sleep in case her dreams
brought an even more vivid reminder of the afternoon’s unbelievable stupidity.
She was fretting, too, over what had happened to Barney. Her mother had categorically denied having any hand in his disappearance while Cilla said merely that the man who’d collected him was ‘ordinary’ with a name she couldn’t remember.
She was tired and depressed when she arrived at work. Twenty minutes later, she was jobless.
‘Iris is quite insistent,’ Miss Finn said wearily. ‘She says you’ve proved yourself unreliable by walking out in the middle of a busy day without permission and failing to return.
‘I said I was sure there was some explanation, but I’m afraid she doesn’t want to know.’
‘I’ve just given her the excuse she wanted.’ Ginny bent her head. ‘And I can’t explain either.’
Miss Finn sighed and handed her an envelope. ‘You’ve got two weeks’ wages in lieu of notice and I’ve written you a reference.’ She paused. ‘Although this might be a good time to consider a change of direction.’
‘Yes,’ Ginny agreed soberly. ‘I—I’d already decided that.’
But in my own time, she thought ruefully, as she departed.
Lost in thought, she was waiting to cross the street when a hand fell on her arm and, to her horror, she found Andre looking grimly down at her.
‘Ou vas tu?’ he demanded. ‘I was coming to the café to find you.’
She wrenched free. ‘Well, you’d have been unlucky because I’ve just been fired. And I don’t want to be found, so you go your way and I’ll go mine.’
His mouth hardened. ‘Now you are being ridiculous. There are things that must be said and running away will solve nothing. Now will you walk with me, or must I carry you?’
‘Lay one hand on me,’ Ginny said hoarsely, ‘and I’ll scream blue murder.’
‘Over a lovers’ quarrel? Because that is what I shall say—and be believed.’
