But his face betrayed none of his feelings as Brett took the glass she held out to him. 'Should we drink a toast?' he asked, wondering if words could mark this—for him—momentous moment.
'I'm no good at toasts.' Tasha walked ahead of him back into the sitting-room and dropped onto the settee. 'You're the writer; you suggest one.'
'But I only write fiction.'
Tasha liked that. He came to sit beside her and she clinked her glass against his.
He took a sip of wine, then asked, 'What day is it?'
'Friday.'
He took another drink. 'And the date?'
'The twenty-fourth,' Tasha told him, her mouth curving in amusement.
Brett drank again. 'The month?'
'May.' She watched him put the glass to his lips for the fourth time and said, 'Did you just propose a toast without me knowing about it?'
'You could always drink to it yourself.'
'So I could.' For a moment she toyed with the glass as if making up her mind, teasing him a little, but then she raised it and said, 'To today—the twenty- fourth of May.' And she took a long drink, the wine cold and luxurious against her throat.
'A very special day,' Brett murmured and bent to kiss her again. He could taste the wine on her lips, felt first its coldness but then through it the warmth of her mouth. She tasted so good, so sweet. 'I began to get worried when you didn't answer my calls,' he admitted ruefully.
'Good. It doesn't do a man any harm to feel insecure.'
'I'm beginning to think you have a sadistic streak in you.'
He said it playfully but Tasha put her head on one side, considering the idea seriously. Her eyes shadowed. 'Maybe that's necessary sometimes. Especially for a woman.'
'In a love affair, do you mean? When you want to call a halt?' Desperately curious, he was guessing, perhaps probing, although he knew it was unwise to do so.
Her clear, beautiful eyes regarded him steadily, reading his mind. 'Perhaps. And are you cruel?'
'I hope not. I try not to be.' He could have told her that he'd seen too much cruelty in his years as a journalist, but he didn't want to spoil this enchanted moment.
She nodded slowly, apparently believing him, then, in one of her sudden changes of mood, finished her drink and stood up. 'I hope you're going to take me out to dinner, because I'm hungry.'
He would have liked to stay there to eat, but said immediately, 'Of course.'
'Then I'll go and change. Make yourself at home.'
'Are you going to wear that red dress?' he asked.
Tasha paused in the doorway and looked back at him. Again she gave that Mona Lisa smile as she shook her head. 'No. I think I'll save that for—a special occasion.'
The words held a wealth of promise, the last few spoken in a voice that was even huskier and more seductive than usual. It sent a frisson of excited anticipation running through his veins, and Brett thought that he'd never before met such a tantalising woman. He wondered why on earth she wasn't already married, hadn't been snapped up long ago, and the next moment really wondered what the reason was. But then, for all he knew she could have been married, maybe even still was. Was the guy she'd said she'd just ditched her husband? All sorts of ideas went chasing through his mind. She just had to be too good to be true. With that hair and that figure.
Almost angrily he pushed the wild theories out of his mind. He was strongly tempted, while she was changing, to go to her work-room again to have another look at that folder. But maybe he didn't have to go as far as the work-room; Tasha had been carrying a briefcase when she'd arrived home and had dropped it on the floor by the door. He picked it up but it was locked, and it was the kind that needed a combination number to open it. Returning it to its former place, Brett refilled his glass and went to the window, looking out absently, his thoughts running free and all on Tasha as he waited for her.
She was worth the wait. She wore green. A very pale leaf-green dress that left her shoulders and arms bare, fitted to the hips and then swung free. Her hair hung loose as he liked it and she looked altogether delectable. 'You look…' He sought the right words.
'I hope I look half-starved and you can't wait to feed me,' Tasha interrupted before he could find them.
He gave a wry smile, wondering when, if ever, she would allow him to say how he felt about her. 'Do we walk or ride? I'm not too familiar with the restaurants around here.'
'Do you like Thai food? There's a place not too far away.'
'Sounds fine.'
Tasha picked up her bag and a gossamer stole from the hall and they walked to the restaurant. It wasn't the first they passed and Brett couldn't help wondering if she was deliberately avoiding the nearer ones because she was known there, had visited them with her ex-boyfriend. Ex-lover? Ex-husband? He had to find out.
But once they were settled in the restaurant Tasha showed no inclination to talk of personal things. She asked him if he'd seen a programme that had been on the television that week, a half-hour piece on artists who painted pictures to illustrate magazine stories and book covers, and the models they used.
Brett shook his head. 'No, I didn't see it. Why, were you involved?'
'Yes, it was my idea and I did all the research,' Tasha told him with evident satisfaction.
'Did you video the programme? I'd like to see it.'
'I have it at home. I'll put it on for you later, if you like.'
So she wanted him to go back with her. Brett had to look away to hide the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Such an invitation could only mean that she was ready to go to bed with him, wanted it as much as he did. He reached across the table to take her hand and she let him hold it for a minute, but then drew it away as the waiter came up with a bottle of wine.
'What's the name of your company?' Brett asked.
'Plenitude Productions. You probably haven't heard of them, but over the last couple of years we've really started to make a name for ourselves.' She listed some of the programmes the company had made. 'Did you see any of those?'
'Yes, I did. Were you involved with them all?'
'Most of them.'
'I'm impressed. They were memorable.'
Tasha smiled with pleasure and he saw, with no little surprise, that he had found the way to please her. Personal compliments, about her looks, her figure, her hair, she disregarded them all, possibly even resented them, but praise her work and a delightful flush came into her cheeks and her eyes smiled warmly at him. 'Tell me about your work,' he invited. 'How did you get started? Were you a journalist?'
Immediately a shadow came over her face. 'Definitely not. No, I was working in an office, but I had a few ideas which I sent to various production companies. Some of them were accepted so I built up a portfolio of my work. Then I heard that Plenitude were starting up so I went along to see them. I sort of talked my way in to see the boss,' Tasha admitted with an impish grin. 'He liked some of my ideas, put a couple into production, and then offered me a full- time job.'
Brett could imagine her talking her way in; in fact he doubted any man's ability to withstand her when she was really persuasive, when she definitely wanted something. Or any woman's, if it came to that, he thought, remembering the interviews she was currently doing. 'How long ago was that?'
'Nearly three years.'
'Have you thought about going freelance?'
'I did think about it before I joined Plenitude, but the money side of it would have been a bit risky.'
She gave a small grimace. 'The rent always has to be paid.'
'I suppose you could always have shared the flat,' Brett suggested, subtly probing.
Her eyes met his in that candid way she had and he guessed she was reading his mind. 'I don't like to share.'
'Never?' There was more behind the question than a simple query.
'No, not in any circumstances.'
The words were spoken in a definite tone that made him wonder why, but their food came and they talked about Thailand, which Brett had vi
sited once, until he remembered another firm answer she'd given him and said, 'Why so definite about not being a journalist?' His eyes were on her face although he kept his voice casual. 'Have you got something against journalism?'
'Not journalism as such. Just journalists, and the way they go about getting their information.'
Carefully, he said, 'You sound as if you speak from experience.'
'Yes, I do. A so-called journalist did the dirty on me once, pinched one of my ideas and sold it to a paper as if it was his own. And as I'd already sold the idea to a television company I wasn't very popular. I had to give them their money back and they didn't employ me again. And—' She stopped abruptly and didn't go on, although he waited.
'Nasty,' Brett said at length. 'But not all journalists are the same, of course.'
'Aren't they?' Tasha frowned, then said on a bitter note, 'I can't think of any I've ever met that I'd trust. All they care about is the story, and they don't care how they have to lie and cheat to get it.'
Thankfully the waiter came up to ask if they were enjoying their meal, and Brett was able to hide the consternation he felt and afterwards change to a safer subject.
He was a good conversationalist and set out to amuse and entertain her, not monopolising things, but inviting her to take part too. Tasha quite enjoyed just listening to him, he had a strong but not obtrusive voice, a voice that went with his character and body, she thought fancifully. Sometimes he would glance away, often when he paused, but most of the time he kept his eyes on her as he spoke instead of looking at a point past her ear as some men did. Somewhat to her own surprise, Tasha had found that she'd missed him during the last few days, had found herself wondering about him, what he was doing. And she'd felt a surge of pleasure when he hadn't been put off by her ignoring his calls and had taken the trouble to find her again.
They finished their meal and lingered over coffee. Picking up her left hand, Brett traced the paler coloured band of skin on her middle finger, the mark left by a ring that had been worn for a long time. 'Did you give it back when you broke it off?' he asked.
Tasha smiled slightly, guessing what he wanted to know but continuing to tease him a little. 'No, I lost it, quite recently. It flew off my hand when I was taking a ride on a roller-coaster.'
'Big kid,' he said with a grin. Then added, 'And it wasn't on your engagement finger.'
'No, I don't believe in engagements. Do you?'
He shrugged. 'I haven't really thought about it— or tried it. Maybe you're right; maybe they are a bit dated.' He gave a sudden wry smile. 'Let's get all these questions we're wondering about out of the way, shall we? I've never been married, or engaged. How about you?'
'No, nor have I.' Tasha smiled a little. 'But the questions aren't really answered, are they? A denial of total commitment doesn't mean that you haven't had a close relationship, even a whole string of close relationships. That's pretty commonplace nowadays.'
Trying to keep disappointment out of his voice, Brett said, 'And have you had a whole string of close relationships?'
'I meant you.'
'Did you, indeed? What makes you think I fall into that category?'
'How old are you? No—' she held up a hand '—let me guess.' Her eyes studied his face. 'Over thirty. About thirty-three?' He nodded. 'So there are very few men of your age around who haven't had a few affairs in the past.'
'I thought we were talking committed relationships, not affairs.'
'You don't think they're one and the same?'
'No. And I think you know they're not.'
'To a woman they would be,' Tasha said positively.
'Perhaps. To some. But not to a man.'
'So you're saying that men draw a line between sex and emotion.'
Brett grinned. 'Ah, so we're down to the basic differences between men and women already, are we?'
'The battle of the sexes,' Tasha said wryly.
'It doesn't have to be a battle,' Brett pointed out, watching her and wondering what had happened in her past to make her so sardonic.
Glancing up, she caught him studying her and instantly became animated again. 'That was a wonderful meal. Thank you. Let's go, shall we?'
She had shut him out, Brett realised; behind the bright smile, a curtain had been drawn across the window into her character. And she'd also ducked the question of whether she'd ever had a close relationship, he noticed wryly. But maybe she'd open up more when they were in bed together, after they'd made love.
Tasha chatted companionably enough as they strolled back to her flat. She let Brett take her hand and link his fingers through hers and he wondered if she could feel the electric anticipation that filled him. He was a little disappointed not to see any similar feeling in her face. Was she hard? Did she go to bed with so many men that it had become commonplace? He fervently hoped it wasn't like that; he found he very much wanted their lovemaking to be special. When they'd climbed the endless stairs to the flat, Tasha got him a drink and then put on the video she'd told him about.
Kicking off her shoes, she curled up beside him on the sofa and he put his arm round her. Brett tried to concentrate on the programme but found it difficult; he was so consumed with need of her. But he knew the way to please her was through her work so he gave his attention to the screen, wondering if this, again, wasn't some kind of test Tasha was setting him. The documentary was good, he saw that straight away. OK, the subject wasn't that important, but she had researched it thoroughly and had made it not only informative but amusing too. And she'd used actual film footage as much as words to describe the world of magazine story illustrations.
It wasn't that long, and when it was finished he said immediately and sincerely, 'Congratulations. It was a good programme.'
Tasha switched off the set. 'But what did you really think of it—as a writer? And please don't be polite or kind.'
'I wasn't being either. I enjoyed it. You told the story well, without waffling, and you pointed out all the things that an ordinary person wouldn't know and would find interesting. Also, you let the audience see that it could be quite a hard and uncertain life, but the anecdotes you included lightened it when the going could have got heavy. A nicely rounded, entertaining programme. I'm not surprised your boss offered you a full-time job. If I were you I'd ask for a raise in salary.'
'Hey, you don't have to go overboard,' Tasha remonstrated, but there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks.
'I'm not. Anyway, you don't need me to tell you it was good; you must already know.'
'People have been very kind,' she admitted. 'But as you're a writer I value your opinion.'
Not for the first time Brett saw that his being a writer had made quite an impression on her. He hoped it wasn't only that. He wanted her to fancy him as a man, too. He wanted to glory in her need for him, in her preference for him above all other men. He wanted to make it obvious to other men that she was his, to see the jealousy in their faces as she looked at him with that secret smile a woman had when she was with her lover.
Tasha got up to take the video out of the machine, kneeling on the floor as she put it back in its box.
She stayed there, in no hurry, it seemed, to rejoin him on the sofa. After a moment Brett said, 'Have you any more programmes due out?'
She nodded. 'Next month. But it's a programme for teenagers and will be broadcast for schools.'
'And what are you working on now?' He asked the question lightly, but not forgetting for a moment her current project.
She shook her head. 'I told you; it's top secret.' She hugged her knees and added, 'But I have high hopes for it; if I pull it off it could really make my name.'
Or it could do untold damage, Brett thought wryly. He held out his hand. 'Come and sit with me,' he invited.
Tasha hesitated a moment but then came to sit beside him. Her hesitation disturbed him, but the next moment it was forgotten as he put his arms round her and drew her to him.
He kissed her lingeringly, savouring eve
ry second, wanting this night to last. Tasha responded and once again he became lost in the wonder of the embrace, in the intoxication of her closeness. But when his breathing quickened and he lifted his hand to slip the strap of her dress from her shoulder, she moved away from him.
'Tasha?' He said her name on a questioning note, his voice thick with desire.
She didn't speak for a moment but got up and went to the window, stood looking out and then turned to face him. 'Do you want me, Brett?'
'You know I do.'
'You've made—quite an impression on me, too. From the very first.'
'Good. I'm glad.' He got to his feet and would have gone to her, taken her in his arms again, but she held up a hand to stop him. 'What is it?'
'I'm not promiscuous, Brett. There's no way I'd ever go to bed with someone I've known for less than a week.'
She said it so firmly that he felt as if she'd hit him between the eyes. 'You said I'd made an impression on you,' he pointed out.
'You have. I don't think I've ever felt quite like this before—in fact I know I haven't.'
Despite the acute disappointment, he felt immensely pleased and flattered. 'And so?'
'And so I want to get to know you before we— have sex. Anyone can go to bed together, Brett, but I want you for a friend as well as a lover.'
He moved closer and put his hands on her waist, stood looking down at her in the light of the lamps. 'But you do want me?'
Tasha gave a slow smile, said in that gorgeous way she had, 'Absolutely. But I want you—us—to be very, very special.' She put her arms round his neck and said huskily, 'You do understand, don't you?'
'It's going to be very hard.' And he meant it; already his hands ached with the need to hold her body close against his own and let her see how much he hungered for her.
She brushed her lips lightly against his mouth. 'I'll make it up to you—when it's the right time.'
Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male Page 4
