Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male

by Sally Wentworth

  'Work! On a Sunday morning?'

  'That's when the people I have to interview for my television programme are usually at home.'

  She left him and Brett wandered after her. He was in an inner corridor, the first door leading into the kitchen. It was very small and compact, made out of what once must have been a large linen cupboard, he guessed. He switched on the kettle and, curious, went on down the corridor. Behind one door he could hear the sound of a shower running and guessed that was the bathroom. There were two other doors. One opened into a bedroom at the back of the house. Here one wall was entirely taken up by built-in wardrobes painted in a soft green. There was a bed that could have been either a large single or a small double and which, the way he was feeling at the moment, looked an infinitely good place to be—so long as Tasha was there with him. There was also a dressing table, more bookshelves, and a large ottoman at the foot of the bed. Again the place was very clean and tidy and the colours, although not making as bold a statement as in the sitting-room, were warm and inviting.

  When he opened the door of the last room, also at the back of the house, Brett smiled. He'd read somewhere that you had to see where a person worked to really know them, and this was evidently where Tasha worked. There was a huge desk under the window and it was piled with papers, folders and a great many books, jostling for space with a computer and all the bits that went with it, a fax and a telephone. There were filing cabinets with the drawers open and a great many more books and papers on the floor, as if tossed there because she was too impatient to get on with what she was working on to put them away. On one wall there were a couple of cork noticeboards, both covered in pieces of papers, lists, letters and reminders. It was the work-room of a very busy person, and he began to understand now why she'd said she envied him the cottage in Cornwall.

  Idly Brett picked up a couple of the folders from the desk and glanced at their titles. One was, he saw with interest, an idea for a programme on the follow- up of young men who'd had testicular cancer, how they had coped and how it had affected their lives. He could imagine that making a very popular programme. Another was on Car Boot sales and then- growing popularity. 'Will they eventually kill off the church jumble sale?' Tasha had written on it.

  Brett gave a small smile and put down the folder. There was another one on the desk, partly open. He caught the words 'Sexual Exploitation' at the top of a sheet of paper and, his interest caught, he pulled it out. There was a long list of names, all women, under the words, 'To be interviewed'. The names meant nothing but the few scribbled words alongside each of them suddenly meant a great deal. 'Sec. to MD, Sampson Holdings', he read. And, 'Researcher to Lord Moggach, HOL', followed by, 'PA to Principal, Univ. of Westshire'. Brett's eyes widened incredulously as he read down the list. My God, this was dynamite! Here were listed the names of some of the most important men in the business establishment— and in politics, he realised as he recognised that HOL meant House of Lords and, further down the page, HOC was House of Commons.

  He gave an astounded whistle under his breath. His journalist's mind immediately foresaw what could happen. If Tasha interviewed all these women and got stories of sexual exploitation from them—from even a quarter of them!—it would be a scandal that would rock the country. But surely all these women would never reveal their secrets to a television reporter, even if they had a secret to tell. But Tasha wasn't just any television reporter; Brett remembered her talking to the nurses in the cafe, how they had responded to her warmth and sympathy, telling her, a complete stranger, the details of their working lives, and of their own lives, too, he recalled. He stood, staring into his own mind, as he realised that she was the ideal person for a job like this; the genuine warmth in her character, that air of innocence in her eyes—who would hesitate to take her into their confidence, to help her and tell her all she wanted to know? Especially woman to woman. And many women might be more than happy to have a means of revenge in the endless war of the sexes.

  The sound of the shower stopped and he hastily put down the folder in exactly the same place and went softly back to the kitchen, remembering to shut the door of the work-room quietly behind him. The kettle had boiled and he made himself a coffee, took it back into the sitting-room. He had just finished drinking it when Tasha came back in. She had changed into a neat, dark business suit with a skirt well below her knees but with a slit up the side that revealed sheer black tights above her high-heeled shoes. Her hair was drawn back into a plait and she had remade up her face with subtler shades of lipstick and eyeshadow. So this was Tasha Briant, career-woman; she looked a completely different girl from the one who had danced with such natural passion just a few hours ago.

  She looked a little surprised to find him still there, but smiled and said, 'I'm ready to roll.'

  He got to his feet. 'I'll lean on you while we go down all those stairs.'

  Tasha laughed. 'Once up and down those is usually enough to convince my dates that they never want to see me again.'

  Brett realised she was giving him an opening, a laughing way of saying that he agreed and that it had been nice but it was over. But he thought of the folder he'd seen and knew that he was not only going to see her again, he was going to get close—as close as a lover.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When they reached the street Brett paused and said, 'Where are you heading?'

  'I've an appointment to see someone near Bath.'

  In his mind he rapidly ran through the list of names he'd seen and figured out she was probably going to see the secretary of the university head. 'By train?'

  'No, by car.'

  There were cars parked on both sides of the road with 'Resident Parking' stickers on their windscreens and he glanced at them, wondering which one was hers. 'What do you drive?'

  'I've got a little Fiat coupe.'

  'A sports car? Aren't you afraid of having it stolen?'

  Tasha laughed. 'No. I'll show you. This way.'

  She led him to the end of the terrace and down what must have once been a carriageway that led to the back of the houses. A security gate barred the way but Tasha unlocked a door at the side of it and Brett saw that there were rows of stables that had been converted into garages. Tasha's garage was almost at the end of the row and the Fiat was a bright buttercup- yellow. He laughed. 'And there was I, guessing your car would just have to be red.'

  'So as not to clash with my hair, you mean?' She gave a groan and put her hand up to her head. 'It's the bane of my life.'

  'Don't be ridiculous! Your hair is glorious.'

  She smiled her appreciation of the compliment but only said, 'Can I give you a lift?'

  Brett could easily have walked to the nearest tube station but he wasn't going to pass up a chance to be with her for a little longer—or to ride in that car.

  He was almost too tall for the car, but he had only been sitting in it a few minutes, while he listened to the acceleration and the engine, before he knew that he liked it. 'It's quite a car,' he acknowledged. 'Are you sure you're awake enough to drive all the way to Bath?'

  Tasha's lips twisted in amusement. 'Oh, sure, I'm fine.'

  'I'm not doing anything special today; I could come with you and give you a break, if you like?'

  She laughed openly. 'Admit it; you've fallen in love with the car!'

  That was an opening for a flattering compliment if not something far deeper if ever he'd heard one, but Brett didn't fall into the trap. Instead he grinned in return and said, 'You should feel very sorry for me; I only have a beaten up four-wheel drive model. I have to park on the street and anything else would get either stolen or vandalised.'

  'Ah, I feel so sorry for you,' she mocked.

  'So you should.' His voice had softened because he'd turned to look at her and seen that a wayward tendril of hair had escaped and now caressed the line of her cheek. He would have liked to reach out and touch it but knew better than to do so. 'So, do I come with you?'

  'No.' She shook her head
but there was no real rejection in her tone. She pulled into the kerb and Brett saw they were outside a tube station. 'I'm meeting someone for lunch.'

  'So when will I see you again?' Behind them a red double-decker, unable to get by, honked impatiently. One didn't argue with a London bus. Brett got out quickly but ducked down to look in the door. 'When?' he demanded.

  But Tasha only lifted a hand in hurried farewell. 'If I don't get out of the way he'll ram me. Bye.'

  He had no choice but to let her go, and stood on the pavement, inwardly fuming, as he watched her pull away.

  It was almost a week before Brett saw Tasha again. She had proved to be singularly elusive. Figuring that she wouldn't be back from Bath until late, he hadn't tried to phone her until the evening and then, to his annoyance, had found that her number was ex-directory. His only contact with her was Guy, so the next day Brett had gone to his flat, but the place was empty, the caretaker telling him that Guy had already moved out and gone to stay with his parents for a few days until his departure for Hong Kong. And Tasha hadn't told him the name of the company she worked for, so that was no help. In the end he had managed to trace Guy's parents' address and had rung him there.

  'Tasha's phone number?' Guy laughed. 'Wouldn't she give it to you? Maybe I shouldn't let you have it, then.'

  'Cut it, Guy. Just tell me the number.'

  'This could cost you; I shall need somewhere to stay when I come over to London and—'

  'You can stay,' Brett interrupted. 'Stay as long as you like. Now give me the number.'

  Again laughing with enjoyment, Guy said, 'You have got it badly. All right, I'll get it for you.' He paused a moment and his voice had changed to a warning as he added, 'But be careful, Brett.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Just that… Well, other men have fallen for Tasha, fallen heavily, but I haven't yet known her let anyone get really close.'

  It was impossible not to wonder if Guy was referring to himself, but Brett didn't ask. He wrote down the number Guy gave him and immediately rang it. All he got was a message on the answering machine. It was admittedly in Tasha's gorgeously husky voice but the tone was businesslike. He became used to that tone over the next three days, because it was always the recording that answered. And Tasha didn't return his calls. The first two or three times he left messages giving her his number and asking her to call him back, but after that he just replaced the receiver without speaking.

  At first he thought that she was probably out doing an interview or at work; he made excuses for her, but after a couple of days he began to feel first angry, then anxious. Was this her way of letting him know that she didn't want to see him again? But he had to see her again. Brett cursed himself for behaving like a lovesick schoolboy, but found that he couldn't concentrate on his work and kept looking moodily at the phone, trying by sheer will-power to make it ring. He could imagine himself stretching out his hand to lift the receiver, saying hello and hearing her voice, so husky and intimate, telling him that she was sorry, that she'd been away, had only just got back. But the phone didn't ring.

  In the end, unable to stand it any longer, he threw pride out of the window and went round to her flat. It took him a while to find it because when they'd gone there before she hadn't given the taxi-driver her exact address, had just told him to go to the British Museum and had directed him from there. And when they'd driven away together there had been a van obscuring the sign showing the name of the road. So he had to drive around the streets until he eventually found it, but when he rang the bell beside her name there was no answer and his spirits fell to zero again. He decided to wait.

  It was almost three hours later and day had turned into evening before he saw the little yellow sports car turn into the driveway between the houses, and another few minutes before Tasha appeared and walked along the pavement. Not that most people would have known it was her, because her top half was completely obscured behind the large framed picture she was carrying. But Brett had no difficulty—he recognised her legs.

  He had intended to wait until she got to her flat but instead got out of his car and crossed the street to meet her. She couldn't see him so he peered at her over the top of the frame. 'I heard the Mona Lisa had been stolen,' he remarked.

  'Brett!' Tasha looked surprised to see him, but not at all embarrassed, he noted. 'Oh, good. I was just thinking that I could do with some muscle to carry this.'

  She handed over the picture, which he saw was a modern, cubist still-life. 'Haven't you got enough pictures on your walls—or are you planning on opening a gallery?'

  'I saw it in a second-hand shop and couldn't resist it.'

  'Is it the real thing?'

  'No, only a signed print, unfortunately. Do you like it?'

  Brett held it out in front of him, his head tilted to one side in consideration, as they went down the steps to the door of her building. 'Yes. Yes, I do. And are you going to give me the great pleasure of carrying it up all those stairs to your place?'

  Tasha laughed. 'Of course.' She gave him a mischievous look. 'But you will be suitably rewarded.'

  'I suppose that means you'll give me the kiss of life if I pass out at the top,' he said wryly, which made her laugh again.

  But when they reached her flat she immediately made him hold the picture in several different places until she decided just where she wanted it hung. 'Are you any good at knocking in picture hooks?' she asked hopefully.

  He held out a hand. 'Where's the hammer?' he asked resignedly.

  When the picture was in place they both stood back to admire it. Brett longed to ask her why she hadn't returned his calls, and he also badly wanted to know just how far she'd got with her research into the sexual exploitation programme, but instead he said, 'Do you deliberately leave yourself open to suggestive remarks?'

  Tasha gave him an amused look, her mouth twisting into the exact smile of the Mona Lisa he'd accused her of stealing. 'You don't rise to the bait,' she admitted.

  'What would happen if I did?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Just—nothing?' She nodded, watching him, and he couldn't resist saying, 'Not a lot seems to be happening now.'

  Then she completely startled and delighted him by saying, 'But you're here,' and coming to put her arms round his neck and kissing him, her lips soft and sensuous under his. But after all too short a moment she stepped back, her eyes teasing. 'And that was your reward.'

  'Was it?' Reaching out, Brett caught her hand and pulled her to him, his eyes holding hers. She was wearing one of what he thought of as her 'business outfits', a grey suit with a pearl-coloured blouse under it. Her hair was drawn back from her face and he lifted a hand to free it, sending it cascading onto her shoulders. He gave a small sigh of satisfaction as he let it run through his fingers, like molten copper across his palm. Then his shoulders suddenly hunched as he bent to give his own kiss.

  There was need in his embrace, a deep longing in the lips that so eagerly took hers. Brett knew he ought to hide it, to control it, but he couldn't; he had thought so often of the first time they'd kissed, so much wanted her in his arms again. She didn't resist or try to fight him, and it was only a moment before she responded, her lips moving under his, her arms going round his neck. He pulled her closer and gave a soft groan as he felt her body against the length of his. An agony of desire ran through him as his lips moved to her throat and he smelt the poignant, somehow mysterious and yet feminine scent of her perfume. His loins ached with need of her, his breath grew hot and unsteady. He wanted to tell her how much he wanted her, hungered for her, but he knew it was too soon, too soon, and that he must somehow control this desperate yearning. Another tremor ran through him as passion deepened, but then Brett lifted his head, his eyes closed, fighting for self-control.

  He was gripping her shoulders, not knowing that his grip was so fierce it was hurting her. Tasha looked up, her own breath unsteady, that startled look again in her eyes. Slowly she reached up and stroked her fingers do
wn his face. Brett gave a shuddering gasp and opened his eyes to look down at her. Harshly he said, 'Do you like to play games with men, to tease them?'

  'Do you think I'm teasing you?'

  'Yes!' The word was bitten out on a stark note.

  'But I'm not.'

  Brett looked down at her, not knowing how to take that. 'Why didn't you answer my calls?' he demanded.

  She hesitated for a moment and would have moved away, but he wouldn't let her, his grip on her shoulders tightening. 'No, look at me. Tell me.'

  Again she hesitated but then said slowly, 'I've been seeing someone.' This time the agony that went through him was one of terrible despair. Brett felt as if the world had suddenly come to an end and he could see no future. 'I had to tell him that it was over before I…'

  'Before?' He hardly dared to breathe.

  Tasha flushed a little. 'Before I was free to see anyone else.'

  It was as if someone had turned on a brilliant light after complete darkness and the world was suddenly wonderful again. Lifting her off her feet, he swung her round, laughing up at her.

  'Hey!' She pretended to be indignant. 'Not so much of the macho stuff.'

  Brett set her down again but kissed her as he did so, then looked down at her, very much afraid that he was grinning like an idiot.

  'What makes you so sure you're the one I want to see?' she asked him dampeningly, but her eyes were laughing.

  'What makes you so sure I'd want to see you after you ignored my calls?' he countered.

  With a small shrug of her left shoulder, Tasha said simply, 'You're here.' She moved away from him. 'Would you like some wine? There's a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.'

  'That would be fine.'

  He followed her to the kitchen and leaned on the doorframe as he watched her, trying to be nonchalant but feeling his blood still pumping with gratified pleasure and excitement. She fancied him! Liked him enough to ditch her current boyfriend. The fact that she'd done so surprised him; most of the girls he knew wouldn't have bothered, would have thought nothing of dating more than one man at a time. Unless it had been a serious relationship, of course. He thought about that as she reached up to a cupboard to get a couple of glasses and he saw the material of her clothes taut against her body, her slim thighs and rounded breasts. He wanted her all over again and at the same time felt a surge of jealousy about the man she'd been seeing.