The Sister Secret (Family Ties)

by Jessica Steele

  She found his door, rang the bell, and waited to be annihilated.

  She was not far wrong. The door opened and he stood there, tall, sophisticated, casually clad—and disbelieving. Indeed, so disbelieving was he that while her voice died in her throat he took a step past her into the hall, as if to check for himself that, incredibly, it looked as if she had again come in her sister’s stead.

  ‘Where’s Josy?’ he demanded, clearly unimpressed as his eyes took in her shoulder-length shining blonde hair and her slender shape in a simple, classic, light wool dress of deepest lavender.

  ‘She—er...’ Her voice faded.

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ he snarled, and to her consternation seemed about to close the door on her.

  ‘I can explain!’ Belvia burst out quickly.

  He halted. ‘I was expecting your sister an hour ago!’ he rapped pointedly.

  ‘She did try to ring!’ Belvia lied desperately. ‘Only you weren’t in.’ Not a smile, not a glimmer of any softening. ‘I lost my way,’ she added to her lie total. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she offered appeasingly.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you!’ he emphasised.

  And Josy had imagined he was kind! Belvia started to get cross, even while she knew that she could not afford the luxury. Then she remembered how this brute of a man had said that he treated a woman as she deserved to be treated. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked bluntly. Unmistakably, this swine had seen that Josy deserved a kind tone. Belvia knew for sure that she would never get that luxury.

  ‘I’m going to eat!’ he informed her curtly.

  ‘I haven’t had my dinner either,’ she dared, and guessed she was about to be flattened for her sauce. But, miraculously, she saw his lips twitch in the way that they had that time she had mistakenly thought she had amused him. He was not amused this time either, though, she saw, when his mouth suddenly looked not at all like smiling. ‘I wanted to explain—about Josy,’ she added in a rush, when it still looked as if he might close the door on her—this thing had to be settled now.

  ‘Is it going to take long?’

  It could do; she had not a clue what she could tell him without bringing Marc into it. ‘I’ll be as brief as I can,’ she promised—and did not know if she was relieved or otherwise when he relented and stood back from the door to allow her into his apartment.

  ‘You’d better share my meal,’ he grunted unenthusiastically.

  As long as you don’t put arsenic on my share, she thought sweetly, and entered a thickly carpeted sitting-room that was roomy enough to house half a dozen settees, but in actual fact housed only two, plus a few well-padded chairs and low antique tables.

  ‘We’ll go straight through to the dining-room,’ her hungry, unwilling host stated, leading the way.

  ‘Er, could I wash my hands first?’ she enquired, as she desperately sought for time to find a way to tell him, tactfully, to leave her sister alone.

  Latham threw her a look which she read as one of regret that he had agreed to let her in. ‘Second on the right, through there,’ he grunted, and left her to it.

  Her mind was much the same blank as it had been when, ten minutes later, she joined him in the dining-room. There were two places laid at the highly polished table, and he was standing by one of them.

  She gave him full marks that, despite his annoyance to find he was again feeding her, he waited until she was seated before taking his own seat. She picked up her knife and cut into a portion of pâté which obviously came from a high-class delicatessen.

  ‘Mmm, this is good,’ she murmured, all wide brown eyes. ‘Did you make it yourself?’

  Again she saw that minuscule movement of his fabulous mouth. But, as before, any suggestion of a smile didn’t make it. ‘You know bloody well I didn’t,’ he growled.

  ‘Oh,’ she mumbled, and knew that she had better watch her step. Another comment like that and he would be slinging her out before she’d had a chance to get through to him about Josy. Josy—think about Josy. Josy was why she was here. Belvia drew herself up short—how on earth had it come about that she could so far forget about Josy as to think that this man who terrified the poor love had a fabulous mouth! ‘Mr Tavenner,’ she said in a rush—and became aware on that instant that, surprisingly for such a hungry man, he had not been eating, but had been studying her for quite a few seconds. That realisation made her forget whatever it was she had been about to say.

  Nor did she have any chance of remembering either when, quite out of the blue, he remarked, ‘You’re so beautiful.’ She stared at him, barely believing her ears. Nor could she believe—his statement on her beauty had been so matter-of-fact—that he should follow it up with a churlish, ‘Why the hell, with all you’ve got going for you, do you have to snare yourself up with a married man?’

  Belvia supposed it must have been because she was still stunned that he had paid her a compliment, no matter how matter-of-factly put, that she did not at once deny that she had any liaison with a married man. In fact, she was sure she must have stared at him in shock for a full five seconds before the last of what he said made sense in her brain. ‘Mr Tavenner,’ she began.

  But his churlishness had given way to mockery. ‘Mr Tavenner—twice?’ he drawled, as if to remind her that she had called him Latham when he had phoned on Tuesday afternoon.

  ‘Are you suggesting I use your first name?’

  ‘I’m suggesting you eat your pâté. There’s a casserole in the oven drying up.’

  Belvia was glad of the respite from having to launch into her ‘hands off my sister’ campaign. For good manners decreed she could not speak with her mouth full.

  The casserole was not dried up, and tasted delicious. ‘This never came out of any delicatessen,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘Nor,’ she added, knowing it for certain, ‘did you make it.’

  ‘There are other things I’m better at,’ he admitted, which left her wondering if one of his lady-friends had served time in his kitchen. That thought disturbed her. She most definitely did not like that thought—though she could not think of one possible reason why she did not. Nor why she should feel immediately better when Latham added, ‘My daily is also a genius in the kitchen.’ So his cleaning-lady had made it for him. ‘Wine?’ he enquired.

  ‘I’m driving,’ she refused, wanting to keep a clear head, and smiled, then saw his glance on her smiling, upturned mouth.

  His mouth, however, when she was somehow irresistibly drawn to stare at it, had never been more unsmiling. In fact, when she raised her eyes and met the granite grey of his arctic look, she knew that his mood had changed yet again. She was not, therefore, totally unprepared for his hostility when he snarled, ‘So keen to stay within the drink-drive laws that you abstain totally when driving! What a pity you don’t hold the laws of marriage in such high regard.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she gasped.

  ‘Spare me!’ he thundered, his expression taut and menacing as he leaned towards her, his jaw jutting at an aggressive angle. ‘You’ve already admitted to having an adulterous relationship.’

  ‘No, I...’ she began. ‘Well, I...’

  ‘Strange, I thought you could lie all the time!’ he grated, manifestly not taken by her amending her ‘no’ to a prevarication.

  ‘So I’ve lied—a little,’ she had to admit.

  ‘At every chance you’ve had, I’d say...’

  ‘Listen, you!’ she snapped, suddenly enraged. She did not have to sit here and take this. Her meal was forgotten in her fury, everything forgotten as, eyes flashing, she shot to her feet, slamming her napkin down. ‘If I’ve lied to you, it’s been for good—’

  ‘If? Ye gods!’ he scorned.

  ‘For good reason! And about having an affair with—’

  He was on his feet too, and, just as she was wishing he was nearer so that she could ease her itching palm by belting him one, he had moved, and in a couple of strides he was standing directly in front of her.

&n
bsp; But her urge to set about him physically was denied her when, his fury suddenly matching hers, he caught hold of her by her upper arms—making her powerless to get a swing in at him—and roared, ‘Don’t lie to me about that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About sleeping around—careless of whether he’s got a married label att—’

  ‘How dare you?’ she erupted. ‘I don’t sleep around. I—’

  ‘You’ll be telling me next you’re a virgin!’

  ‘And you wouldn’t believe that either!’

  ‘You’re damned right I wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Then to hell with you!’ she exploded, and turned to leave—and found that he still had hold of her, refusing to let her go. The result of her fast, halted action caused her to stumble against him. ‘Get away from me!’ she shrieked, outraged, and gave him a push which, violent as it was, moved him not an inch.

  She glared up into the blaze of fury in his fierce grey eyes, and her heart almost stopped at the intent she saw there. ‘My God, when did you get to be so fussy?’ he sneered cuttingly, and in the next split second the hands that had been on her arms were like iron bands about her, pinning her arms to her sides, and the split second after that, for all she tried to jerk her head out of the way, his mouth had found hers in a savage, angry kiss.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, the moment he took his mouth from hers. It was as much time as she had before he claimed her mouth again.

  With what freedom of movement she did have she pushed frantically to try and break free, but he would not let her go. In fact, all she succeeded in doing was to make him hold her more firmly to him. She could feel his body, his warmth, and his strength. It scared her, made her own strength seem puny.

  That fear made her fight the harder. She tried desperately to kick at his shins, but did not connect. She twisted and turned her body in an attempt to be free—and found that by wriggling up against him she had earned herself more savage kisses.

  ‘Keep that up, sweetheart, and we might have a lot of fun.’

  ‘Stuff your promises!’ she returned spiritedly, and gasped as, this time, instead of his mouth coming over hers again, he opted to trail kisses down the side of her throat.

  She swallowed convulsively, realising that, while she was still in a dangerous situation, she somehow no longer felt so threatened as she had! Although still panicking, she was in charge of that panic. Sufficiently at any rate for her to realise that if her violent movements against him to be free seemed to be inciting him to passion then she must have the nerve to stay passive.

  She had nothing to lose, she felt—when another unsuccessful attempt to be free only gave him the chance to pull her to him—and everything to gain. She might, by staying passive in his arms, get him to let go his steely hold on her a little. Enough, anyhow, for her to find a chance to scrape her foot down his shin—that should make him hop a bit, and so would she—right out of there.

  On that instant, before she could think of it further, Belvia stopped struggling. To her surprise, it worked! For instantly Latham leaned back from her and, while still holding her in the circle of his arms, stared down into her face. And then he smiled, a smile which she afterwards realised she should not have believed in. But it was the first smile he had shown her personally, and she was so shaken by it that, while still in the grip of surprise that he was no longer forcing himself on her, she forgot entirely her intention to scrape a few layers of skin off his shin.

  And then it was too late. Because, as his hold on her all at once gentled, suddenly his head was coming down and, tenderly this time, Latham laid his mouth over hers in an all-giving kiss, and Belvia was lost. Never had she known such a beautiful kiss. Never had she known a kiss could be so beautiful.

  ‘Latham!’ she whispered when he broke that kiss, her world upside-down. She stared up at him and he stared back down into her receptive wide brown eyes.

  She had no idea what signals she was giving off, but with her heart beating as it had never beaten before, she had not the smallest objection to make when his head came down and, gently, he claimed her mouth again. She moved her arms and found them free, and was glad, because she was then able to put them around him.

  And it was bliss, pure bliss. He held her firmly, but without force. With expert fingers he slid the zip at the back of her neck down a little way, and she was entirely unaware that he had done so until she felt his warm, mobile, fabulous mouth kissing the nakedness of her shoulders.

  She clutched on to him. She was not very sure about this. His mouth returned to claim hers, and she felt she had nothing to worry about. While his wonderful mouth still held hers, though, she felt his fingers caressing inside her unzipped dress at the back. And again she gripped on to him when warm, sensitive fingers caressed her shoulder, sliding her bra-strap to one side.

  Then all at once emotions she had never dreamed of were licking into life inside her. She was conscious, vaguely, that as they kissed they moved. She had thought—while acknowledging that she was not thinking very clearly—that they had moved only a yard or so. But, when she opened her eyes from yet another gentle onslaught to her senses, she found that they were standing at an open bedroom door.

  Her heart was thundering against her ribs. This was not right; she knew it was not right. Yet Latham had so awakened her senses that what was right and what was wrong were hazy. All she knew was that she did not want it to stop.

  Yet somewhere, something was holding her back, ‘Th-this is as far as I go,’ she managed chokily, and felt she did not hate him after all, but really liked him when he smiled a wonderful smile.

  ‘That decision is all yours, beautiful Belvia,’ he murmured. ‘Though—perhaps—one last kiss?’

  What a wonderful suggestion—she would have felt bereft without another, just one last kiss. She smiled willingly, and he read her answer in that willing smile. And what a kiss it was! Belvia had thought she had learned a lot that night about the different quality there could be in a kiss. But as Latham’s head came down once more and he pulled her slender body close up to him again yet another dimension was added, and as passion between them soared higher she went with him without protest through that open bedroom door.

  ‘Do you want me?’ he asked, teasing her lips apart with his.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed, aching for him—and abruptly hit terra firma with the cruellest of jolts.

  For one minute she was in his arms—willing, eager to be taught everything he could teach her—and the next she was standing alone. Totally alone and isolated, for all that Latham was not a yard away from her. Feeling utterly bewildered, she stared at him, doing her best to comprehend that there was a look about him that seemed to say that he had not the smallest interest whatsoever in making her his.

  ‘What...?’ she gasped. ‘I...’ But, taking in his look of sheer mockery, she seemed totally unable to string two words together.

  ‘What an actress!’ he drawled, not a glimmer about him of a man wanting desperately to make love. Indeed, his look toughened, his tone became grating as he went on to gibe, ‘And you say you don’t sleep around?’

  Her mouth fell open in utter shock. But she was not thinking or feeling as shock gave way to rage. A rage of rejection consumed her. A rage that came from being made to look a fool, being gibed at, stormed in and took total charge of her. He had been leading her on! He had been leading her on so that he could gibe, sneer, and throw back at her, ‘And you say you don’t sleep around!’

  Never had Belvia been so almighty furious as when, taking a fierce step closer so as to be certain not to miss, she yelled, ‘Not around here, sweetheart!’ and hurled a blow across his face which almost sprained her wrist.

  There was still a red mist in front of her eyes when she turned and went smartly out of there, with only the satisfactory, painful stinging in her right hand to tell her that indeed she had not missed, but had found her target—dead on.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BELVIA woke earl
y on Sunday morning after a fractured night’s sleep. Oh, Lord, it seemed worse with the coming of daylight rather than better, as she had hoped.

  Had that really been her last night? The wanton, the pugilist? She winced in her bed, still stunned by her behaviour, and never wanted to get up. Oh, grief, what was happening to her? Before she had met Latham Tavenner she had been an even-tempered and, for the most part, logical-thinking female. Yet, since knowing him, everything she knew about herself, or thought she knew about herself, had been turned upside-down!

  She would have liked to think that it was all his fault. That had he not kissed her so expertly, touched her skin so tenderly, she would not have responded as she had. But she had been kissed pretty near expertly before—and had never come close to losing her head.

  She heard Josy moving about in the room next door and, feeling impatient with herself, she jumped out of bed and headed for the shower. Josy, she knew, would be anxious to know how she had got on. Indeed, she had been waiting up for her last night, but her father had followed her in, and Josy had made herself scarce before he had a chance to see her.

  Belvia owned that she had been glad of the respite, though she had no more idea now than she had had then of what she was going to tell her. The whole point of her going to see Latham had been to find some way of making him see he should leave his pursuit of her sister—yet not a word to him had she said in that direction.

  Belvia came from the bathroom knowing that there was no way she was going to tell her sister any of what had taken place last night. How, when her intention at the outset had been to keep him sweet, she had landed him one and stormed out of his flat—doing up her dress as she descended in the lift.

  Her cheeks grew hot as thoughts that had racked her through the night assaulted her again now. Would she, after years of instinctively knowing that she would give herself only when love was there, have given herself to Latham Tavenner—this man she hated? That he had called a halt before it had got that far was academic; it was herself, her own reactions, which were crucifying her.