by Helen Brooks
Oh, who was she kidding? She stared aimlessly at the scattered brochures, wishing with all her heart she could have just one hug with her mother. She would have given everything she possessed to have her parents back. She brushed a hand over her eyes. But they had gone. She was on her own and she was a grown woman. She took a deep breath and picked up the nearest brochure.
The doorbell rang just after lunch and the English weather had done one of its unique turnabouts and banished every trace of sea mist. Although the air was cooler than it had been for some time, the sun was shining when she opened the door to Rafe.
‘Hello, Marianne,’ he said quietly. ‘Why haven’t you answered my calls?’
She stared at him. He needed a shave and he looked tired. It increased his appeal about one hundred per cent.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked, still in the same quiet voice.
She stood aside in answer and he passed her into the hall but there he waited for her.
‘Well?’ he said, making no effort to touch her. ‘I take it you haven’t lost your phone?’
‘No, I haven’t lost my phone.’
‘Then why the hell have you refused to talk to me?’ he bit out with a suddenness that made her jump.
She recovered almost immediately. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me,’ she said grimly. ‘So talk.’
‘What?’ He stared at her as though she had lost her senses.
‘On the phone, you said you needed to explain something. Could it be the reason you told the builders to stop work? I phoned George,’ she added when he didn’t react. ‘I needed to know what was happening.’
‘I told you to wait until I got back. It was only a couple of days, damn it.’
‘I needed to know what was happening,’ she repeated tonelessly. ‘You call from America and tell me work on the house has stopped—’ she was not going to mention the woman, she had promised herself that ‘—and then expect me to sit here just twiddling my thumbs without any proper explanation? I don’t think so.’
‘What’s the matter, Marianne?’
Struggling for calmness, she said, ‘Funny, but that’s exactly what I was going to ask.’ A shaft of sunlight shone through the hall window and picked out each feature of his dark countenance. Every fibre of her being was calling out to him but doggedly she stood there, refusing to weaken. ‘Would you like to tell me why you’ve stopped work on Seacrest?’
‘Can we sit down?’
She inclined her head towards the drawing-room door in way of reply and after a moment of searching her face, his blue eyes unreadable, he turned and led the way.
Contrary to his words, however, he remained standing when he faced her. Again the piercing eyes searched her face and then he said, ‘Something tells me I haven’t handled this very well.’
It wasn’t what she had expected but she couldn’t afford to show any emotion. ‘Before you left, the night you came to tell me about the fire, you said we couldn’t go on as we were. Then I hear work has stopped on the house.’ She drew in a steadying breath. ‘You’re clearly having second thoughts about—’ she had been about to say us but changed it to ‘—the project.’
‘Yes, I am.’
Her stomach turned and she felt sick. But she had known it so she shouldn’t be surprised, she told herself silently. ‘I see.’
‘I’m not sure you do. Look—’ he raked a hand through his hair ‘—I don’t pretend to be the most intuitive of men. All this talk about reading body language and the hidden signals, it’s beyond me. I know you want me physically, that’s not in question, but I’m not sure how you see the future. I mean—me in the future, long-term.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Hell, do you know what I mean?’
Dredging up an answer through the confusion she was feeling, she said shakily, ‘Are you asking me if I see us together for a long time?’
‘No, I’m asking you if you see us together for ever.’ And then he was at her side, taking her in his arms as he said, ‘I’m doing this all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, damn it. And I didn’t want to rush you, to make you say anything you didn’t want to say. But I’m not the most patient of men, my love, and I’m not sure how much I can take. I need to know—No, I need to tell you how I feel first. Then it’s up to you how we proceed.’
He moved her from him slightly. ‘I love you, Marianne. I never thought I would say that again but it’s true. I spoke so much garbage when we first met so I have to make it absolutely clear now, I know that. I love you. I knew I loved you some time ago but I had to sort out my head and mean it when I proposed marriage and kids and the rest of it. I should have done it weeks ago but I was afraid.’
‘Afraid?’ she whispered, barely able to breathe through the welling emotion. ‘Of what?’
‘You. The power you have over me. The power to hurt. Of you saying you don’t think you can love me.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve had to face the fact I’m a coward where you’re concerned.’
‘Rafe—’
‘I was a swine when we first met and we couldn’t have got off to a worse start, I accept that. All the things I said about your parents, your mother, it was my own hang-ups working through. I’m not proud of it but you need to know I don’t think like that any more. Dad and I had some long talks about stuff. It was painful for both of us but it cleared the air. He’s got regrets about building the business at the cost of missing time—family time—when I was young, but I see now it wasn’t because he didn’t love my mother enough.’
‘You’d been thinking that?’ she murmured, her senses so taken up with the feel and closeness of him she was having difficulty concentrating. And he’d spoken of marriage, of children, hadn’t he?
He nodded. ‘Marianne, I can’t promise you I’d be the easiest man to live with. I’d get it wrong sometimes and make a mess of things, but one thing I can promise you is that you’ve got my heart and soul for eternity. I love you, I’ll always love you.’
‘Oh, Rafe.’ She didn’t know she was crying until he brushed the tears from her cheeks. ‘Rafe, why didn’t you say? I’ve been thinking all sorts of things, that you wanted to finish it.’
‘Us? You thought I wanted out?’ he said with absolute incredulity. ‘What do you think the last month has been about? I’ve laid myself bare. I’ve never talked to anyone like I’ve talked to you.’
‘But you never said you loved me.’
‘I didn’t want to pressure you, not after everything that happened at first. You needed to be able to see the real me, to know if you could love the real me. Since Fiona it’s all been superficial. I was playing a game, Marianne. Being what the woman in question wanted.’
So he couldn’t get hurt again. A sob burst from her throat. ‘I’ve loved you all my life,’ she whispered. ‘Before I knew you I loved you and I could never stop now I’ve met you, whatever happened.’
He bent his head and brushed his mouth slowly over hers. ‘Will you marry me?’ he murmured thickly. ‘Will you be my wife and the mother of my children?’
Her grip on him tightened and she gazed up into the blue eyes that held her heart. ‘Yes,’ she said. And when he kissed her again the world stopped spinning.
It was much later, when they had loved and talked and loved some more, that Marianne led him through to the kitchen to fix him something to eat, after he admitted he hadn’t had a meal for the last twenty-four hours. ‘I just wanted to get home to you,’ he said softly, ‘and I knew something was wrong.’
He sat on a breakfast stool and drank red wine while she grilled a steak, and it was only after he had eaten and some of the strain had cleared from his face that Marianne said, ‘Why did you ask the builders to stop work, Rafe? I still don’t understand.’
He drew her to her feet, wrapping her in his arms. ‘This house is more to you than bricks and mortar,’ he said softly. ‘I understand that. And, as it stands now, all the changes have just made it better for family life and having friends to stay. I don’t want it to become a
hotel, Marianne.’
She stared at him. They hadn’t discussed where they would live when they got married, there hadn’t been time, but with the chain of hotels and all, she had assumed it would be America. Tentatively, she said, ‘As a holiday home, you mean?’
‘Not unless you’d prefer it that way.’ He stroked her hair from her forehead, tracing a path down the side of her face with one finger. ‘I’ll have to talk to Dad, of course, and it would take some months to pull off, but I’m thinking of selling the business. We’re fifty-fifty, Dad and I, but I can’t see any objections from his quarter. He’s made it clear he sees his life here from now on.’
Marianne nodded. She hadn’t told Rafe about his father’s proposal to Crystal, feeling it was the older couple’s right to do it in their own way.
‘But would you want to do that?’ she said slowly. It would be a huge step for him to take.
‘A few months ago, if anyone told me I would be thinking of settling in England I would have told them they were crazy,’ he admitted softly. ‘Now it’s different. I’d like to buy a beach house in Malibu, though. I’ve got plenty of friends there and it would be a base when we visit my relatives. You’d like it, I promise. There are even those who say the Pacific rivals the Cornish sea,’ he teased.
‘Not you, I hope.’
‘Never me.’ He drew her into him, kissing her until she was breathless. ‘Would you like our children to grow up at Seacrest?’ he murmured against her mouth.
‘You know I would.’
‘Then that’s settled.’ He kissed her again. ‘I might even come out of the hotel trade altogether. When we have kids I want to spend time with them, be there, you know?’
Marianne nodded. Yes, she knew. Andrew was a lovely man and he would be a wonderful father-in-law and grandfather, but the amount of time he had put into his business when Rafe was growing up had taken its toll on their relationship.
‘Did I tell you I’m a qualified surveyor?’ He smiled at her surprise. ‘It seemed obvious in view of the hotel business when I was deciding what degree to take. And the beauty of it is, unlike some other professions, surveying knows no territorial bounds. I can practise my skills anywhere in the world. So don’t worry, I won’t become a couch potato when the business is sold.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if you do as long as it’s my couch you’re vegging on.’
He looked at her, all amusement gone. ‘Always,’ he said softly. ‘Always.’
They were married exactly six weeks later at the little parish church in the village which was decked out for the harvest festival service the next day. In view of her parents’ passing, Marianne had wanted a quiet ceremony with only Crystal and Andrew—who had tied the knot the week before at the local register office—and one or two very close friends present.
Rafe’s closest friend—a tall blond Texan complete with stirrup-heeled, silver-toed boots and an accent so thick you could cut it with a knife—flew over to be his best man, bringing his small attractive wife and three blond children with him. Tom Blackthorn gave Marianne away and Gillian and Crystal cried all through the service.
Although the wedding was small, it was perfect. Marianne looked beautiful in a simple full-length gown of white silk, her hair threaded with tiny violet orchids which were reflected in the small posy she carried. Rafe cried unashamedly as she walked down the aisle towards him on Tom’s arm.
Afterwards the little group went to the hotel overlooking the harbour for a wonderful evening meal in the small room Rafe had reserved, champagne flowing until the early hours. They had promised the rest of Rafe’s friends and relations in America they would hold a big party in the States when they came back from their month’s honeymoon in Bermuda, followed by another in England for Marianne’s friends once they were home.
But now it was two o’clock in the morning and they had just arrived home at Seacrest, where they were staying for two days before departing for Bermuda. A round harvest moon bathed the mellow old house in moonlight as they stood on the doorstep, the taxi departing. In the distance, on the beach below the cliffs, the sea murmured its timeless call and the autumnal air carried the scent of the last of the roses blooming on the trellis attached to the house.
It was a beautiful night. Life was beautiful. Rafe looked up into the black velvet sky studded with stars and then lifted Marianne into his arms to carry her across the threshold. He had waited for this woman longer than he had waited for any other and he was glad of it. She was special. Their life together was going to be special and he would work every day to make it so. From being alone, he had been given a priceless gift of a woman he did not deserve to share his life. There was the hope of children, grandchildren, but even if this did not happen Marianne would be enough for him. ‘Happy?’ he whispered, stepping into the shadowed hall.
She brought his mouth down to hers in answer, her fingers fierce as they tangled in his hair. It started a chain reaction neither of them wanted to stop.
As he set her on her feet she clung to him and the fire inside him took over, the reality of the touch and taste and scent of her more intoxicating than any champagne. Helplessly he devoured her mouth, knowing this time he didn’t have to stop. This time he could take her, she was his before God and man and the knowledge was heady.
Her body moved against his, as fluid and sweet as wine, and his hands found the zipper of her dress. As it pooled to white mist at her feet he saw she was wearing the scantiest of bra and panties, her sheer white stockings held up by some modern miracle his male mind didn’t ponder. The need was raging, overpowering, taking over the control he had been master of for so long.
Her hands were feverishly undoing his shirt but, as they moved to the belt of his trousers, he stopped her. ‘Not here,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘And not like this. We’re going to take our time, my love. I want my mouth here…and here…’ His hands slid over her breasts and stomach, stopping at the warm feminine mound at the juncture of her thighs. ‘I want to taste you, to make it last for ever. And the first time I have you will be in our bed.’
He lifted her into his arms again and held her high against his bare chest, his open shirt fluttering as he took the stairs two at a time. In their room they finished undressing each other and she was even more beautiful than he had dreamed, her silky honeyed skin, small pert breasts and long, long legs blowing his mind. He drew her down onto the huge soft bed they had chosen together, the scented cotton cool against his hot skin.
He was not going to rush this. Whatever it took, this was going to be a night they would remember for the rest of their lives. Damn it, he thought, they had waited for it long enough.
Gathering her against his body, he crushed her mouth possessively but almost immediately drew on the control which never failed. He began to kiss her face, her throat, her breasts with his lips and tongue before moving down on to her belly and then lower. He touched and tasted her delicately at first, giving her more and more until her hands were hot on his skin, her body molten as she writhed against him. She was moaning low in her throat but still he withheld what they both wanted until he could not wait one more moment.
He felt her stiffen for one brief second as he made her his but then she was moving under him again, her hands pulling him fiercely against her as she let her body tell him what she craved. And he was lost, a furnace of passion engulfing him as the last of his fragile control was burnt up in the glory that was her soft yielding body. An ecstasy that was mirrored on her face spiralled him higher and higher until the world was left behind and they both entered a place beyond time. He gave her his love, his body, his mind, his will, all self-preservation gone for ever. She held his heart in her small hands and always would.
It was very late when Marianne awoke the next morning. In the moment before she opened her eyes, she was aware of soft warmth and a pleasant all-over ache, and then bright daylight claimed her senses. Rafe was lying facing her, one strong, hard arm draped possessively over her middle. He was fast a
sleep, his long thick eyelashes resting on his cheekbones in a way that fascinated her. She let herself enjoy the wonder of drinking in the sight of him for long minutes, taking her time as she wandered over each feature, each inch of his face. He was beautiful, she thought breathlessly. So beautiful. His body, too. Last night in the moonlight she had seen how powerfully muscled he was and without an inch of surplus flesh.
The thought of their wedding night brought a sensuous heaviness to her limbs. In her naivety she had thought their coming together would be over once he had entered her and made her his, but he had spent all night until dawn broke showing her differently. He had been gentle and fierce, playful and dominant, lusty and loving. So many different depths to his loving. She stretched lazily, her eyes closing.
‘Good morning, Mrs Steed.’
She opened her eyes to see Rafe regarding her with sleepy pleasure and, in spite of all the intimacies of the night before, she blushed as she said, ‘Good morning.’
He drew her into him, kissing her thoroughly before he said with some satisfaction, ‘You taste of champagne.’
‘Well, don’t expect that every morning,’ she said breathlessly, amazed at how much she wanted him considering the hours of lovemaking they had indulged in.
‘Why not?’ He grinned at her, propping himself on one elbow and lightly tracing the line of her throat and collarbone. ‘I think that’s one habit we ought to adopt. Champagne for dinner every night if it has the sort of effect it did yesterday.’