by Penny Jordan
‘I never thought he would fall so deeply in love,’ Poppy heard her adding as she paused on the stairs, not wanting to listen and yet somehow unable to stop herself. She was a masochist addicted to the source of her pain, she told herself bitterly as the older woman continued.
‘Of the two of them James has always been the more passionate and intense one. Chris has always had a much sunnier, more resilient nature. I just wish... How is Poppy? She...’
Quickly Poppy moved out of earshot, her body trembling inwardly with a mixture of pain and indignation.
She knew how James would have reacted if he had been privy to that conversation, how he would have taunted her for allowing herself to become the object of other people’s pity—something he would never allow to happen to him. Poppy’s mouth twisted into a small, bitter smile as she tried to imagine James being involved in any situation, any relationship which might cast him in such a role. Impossible.
It was all very well for her aunt to describe James as the more. intense of her two sons—maybe he was, Poppy allowed, though she thought it more a case of his being intent on having his own way and steamrollering anyone who stood in opposition to him. But more passionate? And because of that passion, as her aunt had somehow implied, more vulnerable than his more easygoing younger brother? No way.
The only intense passion she had ever seen James exhibit was that of anger—the kind of anger that she had felt when he had given her that unwanted, hateful kiss of contempt.
Poppy shivered now as she hurried into the bathroom, the chill invading her body—that tiny, betraying sensation—nothing at all to do with the coolness of the early morning air.
In fact, as she glanced through the window she could see that the pre-dawn sky was clear and that it promised to be a fine, warm day.
No, the reason for the almost electric shock of sensitivity raising goose bumps on her skin lay not outside her body but within it. Its cause was her own fiercely denied and totally shocked awareness of the fact that something within her, some alien, unknown, unwanted part of her, had been physically responsive to the practised skill of James’s kiss.
It wasn’t a subject that she had any desire to explore and in order to dismiss it she spent her brief time under the shower running through the list of Japanese technical terms that she had committed to memory the previous evening.
The conference they were attending was a new one and it promised to be a highly prestigious event. Until James had announced that he would be going, taking the place not just of Chris but also of the sales team, Poppy had been looking forward to it.
The venue was not Milan, where she had been on previous occasions, but a newly opened, exclusive spa resort in the mountains, and the brochure that Chris had shown her had made the event read more like an exclusive holiday than a work event.
Not that she would have any time to enjoy the facilities of the spa, Poppy reflected as she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. James, she suspected, would see to that.
As she reached for her underclothes she caught sight of her naked body in the bathroom mirror. She had always been slim but during the weeks leading up to the wedding she had lost weight and now, she acknowledged, she was getting close to looking almost thin. Mentally comparing her fragile, slender body with Sally’s almost voluptuously feminine shape, she admitted that it was no wonder that Chris should prefer the open sensuality of Sally’s body to the fine-boned thinness of hers.
James had commented derisively on her lack of feminine curves only the previous Christmas, when they’d had their obligatory dance together at the firm’s Christmas party. His hands had spanned her waist completely and he’d taunted her with the fact that her body was more that of a girl than of a woman.
‘Just another indication of your reluctance to grow up and accept life as it really is,’ had been his sardonic comment.
‘I am adult; I’m twenty-two years old,’ Poppy had countered angrily.
‘On the outside,’ James had agreed, ‘but inside you’re still an adolescent clinging to a self-created fantasy. You don’t have an inkling of what real life is all about, Poppy...real emotions... real men.’
She had denied his comments, of course, but it hadn’t made any difference.
It hadn’t always been like this between them; they hadn’t always shared an enmity which seemed to deepen and harden with the years instead of relaxing and easing.
As a child she had adored James. He had then been the one who had rescued her from Chris’s teasing, the one who had patiently taught her to ride her first bike, fly her first kite, the one who had mopped up her tears when she’d fallen off the former and over the strings of the latter.
But all that had changed when she was twelve and had fallen in love with Chris. James’s good-humoured, elder-cousin indulgence of her had turned to contemptuous hostility once he had recognised her feelings for Chris, and she had reciprocated with a fury and dislike which had grown over the years instead of abating.
The last thing she wanted to do, she admitted to herself as she dressed quickly in her working ‘uniform’ of cream silk shirt and straight skirt of her taupe suit, was to spend the next four days exposed to James’s contempt and hostility, but it was not in her nature to take the cowardly way out of refusing to go; she took her job too seriously for that.
The actual translation work she did might not be enough to keep her busy eight hours a day, five days a week, Poppy acknowledged, but a look around at the kind of job her peers had been forced to take—some of them with much better degrees than her own-had made her determined to prove her worth to the business; an evening course in computer technology had turned out to be a wise investment of her time, as had her determination to involve herself in the administrative side of the business.
To some, such work might have seemed mundane, but Poppy felt it had given her a working knowledge and an insight into the running of the company which would be just as valuable on any future CV she needed to prepare as her language skills and her degree.
The overnight bag which she had packed the night before was downstairs in the hall. Picking up her suit jacket she studied her reflection in her bedroom mirror critically.
Her hair, soft and straight, made her look younger than she actually was, she knew, but she was loath to have it cut. Chris had once told her that he thought long hair on a woman was incredibly feminine. Sally, though, oddly enough, had a short, almost boyish crop of blonde curls.
Her features didn’t lend themselves well to exaggerated make-up and her skin was too pale, she decided critically. Her eyes, her best feature, were large and almond-shaped and fringed with thick dark lashes which looked ridiculous when loaded down with mascara. Her nose was short and straight, and her mouth, in her view, was an odd mismatch, her top lip well shaped and moderately curved whilst her bottom lip was wider and fuller, somehow giving her mouth a sensuality which she personally found distressing and which she always tried to play down with a softly coloured matt lipstick.
So far the early spring weather had been unseasonably fine and warm and her skin had begun to lose its winter pallor, but she had still slipped on stockings beneath her skirt. Bare legs, no matter how blissfully cool, did not, in her opinion, look properly businesslike.
Downstairs she made herself a cup of coffee and a slice of toast which she knew she wouldn’t eat. Her stomach was already churning nervously. She had never particularly liked flying.
James and Chris’s father, her uncle, had been a keen amateur pilot who had been killed with a friend when they had flown into a freak electric storm. She remembered how devastated Chris had been at his father’s death. They had cried over it together, sharing their grief. James, on the other hand, had retreated into grim, white-faced silence—a remote stranger, or so it had seemed to Poppy, who’d looked contemptuously upon her and Chris’s shared emotional grief.
She heard James’s car just as she was swallowing her last mouthful of coffee. Quickly putting down h
er cup she hurried out into the hall, pulling on her jacket and picking up her handbag and case as she went to open the door. Like her, James was dressed formally in a business suit, not navy for once but a lightweight pale grey which somehow emphasised his height and the breadth of his shoulders.
As he took her case from her, Poppy saw the brief, assessing glance he gave her and her chin started to tilt challengingly as she waited for him to make some critical or derogatory comment, but instead, disconcertingly, she suddenly became aware that his original scrutiny had turned into something a little more thorough and startlingly more male as his eyes lingered on the soft curves of her breasts.
It was the kind of inspection that Poppy was used to from other men; that telling but, generally speaking, acceptably discreet male awareness of her as a woman. But to be subjected to it by James ... James who’d sternly reprimanded his younger brother when Chris had teasingly commented on her new shape the first day she had self-consciously worn the pretty, flower-sprigged cotton bra that her mother had gravely agreed that her eleven-year-old’s barely thirty-inch c hest demanded.
Seeing James focus on that same chest in such a very male and sensual way when for years Poppy could have sworn that he was totally oblivious to the fact that she had grown from a child to a woman was a very disconcerting experience.
Somehow just managing to resist the temptation to tug the edges of her jacket protectively together, Poppy gave him an angry glare. How would he like it if she focused on... a certain part of his body in that way.
‘Have you got everything?’ she heard him ask her before her brain could come up with an answer to her own question. ‘Tickets, passport, money...?’
‘Of course,’ Poppy responded, grittily withholding the angry comment she wanted to make. This was a business trip to Italy, she reminded herself grimly, and she intended to preserve a businesslike distance between them, if only to prove to James that she was not the adolescent child he constantly taunted her as being.
Outside, his Jaguar gleamed richly in the early morning sunshine. As he opened the passenger door for her, Poppy could smell the rich, expensive scent of the car’s leather seats. Chris and her mother, who, like James, were directors and shareholders in the company, drove cars with far less status and the urge to remind James of this fact was irresistible as he slid into the driver’s seat next to her and started the car.
‘Very nice,’ she commented, smoothing the cream leather with her fingertips. ‘A perk of the job, I presume...?’
‘No, as a matter of fact, it isn’t,’ James shocked her by denying as he swung the car into the traffic. ‘It’s time you brought yourself up to date with current tax laws, Poppy,’ he told her acidly. ‘Even if I wanted to make use of my...connection with the company to my own financial advantage, the current tax penalties involved in owning an expensive company car would prohibit me from doing so.’
Poppy could feel her face start to burn as she interpreted the message in the first part of his statement. Unlike her, he did not have to benefit from his connection with the company, he was implying.
Resentment burned angrily in Poppy’s chest. Was she never going to be judged on her own merits, instead of being condemned because of her mother’s position as a shareholder? How would James like it if she pointed out to him that the only reason he was the company’s chairman was because of his father?
Poppy moved irritably against the restriction of her seat belt, all too aware of how easily James could refute such an accusation. Although he had the reputation within the company of being a demanding employer, noone disputed the fact that the company’s present success was due to his hard work. And no matter how much he might demand of those who worked for him it was never any more than he demanded of himself.
The traffic was starting to build up as they got closer to the airport and already Poppy’s stomach was beginning to clench nervously as she anticipated what lay ahead. It was the moment of take-off she dreaded most; once that was over it was easier for her to relax.
The spot in Italy where the conference was being held was three hours’ drive from the airport, which meant, Poppy suspected, that they would be spending the better part of the day travelling. She had brought some work with her to keep her occupied during the Sight—and to ensure that she didn’t have to talk to James—but she couldn’t help wistfully reflecting how different things would have been if her travelling companion had been Chris... a Chris who was not married to Sally or anyone else, a Chris who—
Stop it, she warned herself sternly. He is married to Sally and you’ve got to stop thinking about him... stop loving him...
As she quickly blinked away the weak tears she could feel threatening her, she heard James say sardonically, ‘Poor Poppy, still hopelessly--in love with a man who doesn’t want her. Why do I get the impression it’s a role you actively enjoy playing?’ he asked her savagely, the harshness in his voice shocking her almost as much as the cruelty of his accusation.
‘That’s not true,’ she denied chokily.
‘That’s not the impression I get;’ James said to her as he negotiated the maze of slip-roads that led to the car park. ‘In fact I’d say the role of self-pitying lover is one you’ve embraced with far more enthusiasm than you appear to have had for embracing real love.’
Poppy’s face burned hotly as he parked the car and opened his door. She wasn’t going to dignify his comments by responding to them... or defending herself, she told herself fiercely. Nor was she going to let James see how much they had hurt her.
‘It’s no wonder that Chris prefers to take a real woman to bed,’ James told her cruelly as he opened her door for her and waited like a gaoler for her to get out.
I am a real woman, Poppy wanted to protest. Just as real as Sally, just as capable of giving love, of inciting passion and desire. But was she? Was there something inherently feminine and desirable in Sally that was missing from her? Was she somehow lacking in that vital ingredient that made a woman lovable and desirable?
All the doubts about herself and her sexuality which had sprung into life with the news of Chris’s engagement to Sally and which she had rigorously and fiercely ignored and denied suddenly rose up inside her, a fully armed enemy force which James’s words had carelessly set free from the prison in which she had concealed them.
Did he know about the fears, the insecurities about her sexuality that these last months had brought? Poppy wondered numbly as she waited for him to remove their cases from the boot of his car.
How could he? It was impossible. He was simply trying to goad her, to hurt her, to provoke a reaction from her which would enable him to reinforce his condemnation of her as immature and foolish.
Quite what his purpose was in doing this Poppy didn’t really know, had never really questioned. The enmity which had developed between them had grown alongside her love for Chris until she’d accepted it in the same way that she had accepted that love. But, despite the fact that Chris’s marriage had now forced her to accept that she had to find a way of severing herself from the past and finding another focus for her life, of accepting that Chris could never be a part of that life in the way she had so much hoped, it seemed that since the wedding James’s antagonism to her had simply increased.
Why? Was he perhaps trying to force her into leaving the company? Was his desire to hurt her, to undermine her... to destroy her... to do with the business, or something more personal?
James had locked the car and was waiting impatiently for her to join him.
These next four days were going to be the longest of her life, Poppy reflected.
‘You can relax now; we’re airborne...’
The sound of James’s voice in her ear made Poppy open her tightly closed eyes, her pent-up breath leaking in a relieved sigh from her lungs as she recognised the truth of what he was saying.
Having shudderingly refused the window-seat that James had offered her, she had fastened her seat belt and willed herself not to give in to
her childhood need to have a familiar hand to cling to as the plane had taxied down the runway and started to lift off.
At least she had managed not to do that, although... Surreptitiously she slowly released the tense fingers she had not been able to stop herself from curling into the immaculate smoothness of James’s suit jacket—and not just James’s suit jacket, she acknowledged uncomfortably, but James’s very solidly muscled arm as well.
His dry ‘Thank you, Poppy’ as she tried to remove her hand from his arm without him noticing what she had done made her flush guiltily and avoid looking at him.
Did he never feel afraid? she wondered bitterly. Did nothing ever dent that iron self-control of his? Had no one ever made him ache... hurt ...yearn for her so much that nothing else ... noone else mattered?
If anyone had, she had certainly never been aware of it, Poppy thought, but then she had been too involved in her own feelings to pay much attention to anyone else.
As always, now that they were actually airborne, her fear left her, her body starting to relax...
She refused the drink that the stewardess offered her and reached for her case and the work she had brought with her. James, she noticed, was already engrossed in some papers which he had removed from his briefcase. Well, at least whilst his attention was on them he wouldn’t be able to pick on her, she decided with relief.
‘Oh, James, just look at that view,’ Poppy breathed, unable to keep the awed delight from her voice as she stared through their hire-car window at the panorama spread before them.
Transport had been arranged from the airport to the conference centre, but James had opted to make his own arrangements and independently hire a car, and Poppy had felt no trepidation at the thought of travelling with him, since she knew that not only was he a very safe driver but that he was also familiar with Italian roads.
The thought of spending three hours shut up in a car with only him for company had been a different matter and until they had started to climb into the mountains she had resolutely occupied herself with her own thoughts rather than try to engage him in any conversation. Conversations with James, she had decided bitterly, always seemed to lead to the same place-to them arguing.