by Sara Craven
She moaned softly, almost deliriously as the desire to touch him in turn became too great to be borne, and her shaking hands began to fumble the buttons on his shirt free from their holes.
She dragged the edges of the shirt apart, uncaring that she heard it tear as she pressed tiny, frantic kisses over the hair-roughened skin of his chest, her flurried breath rasping in her throat.
Their mouths met again, heatedly, demandingly, his tongue a ribbon of liquid flame against her own.
Her robe fell, disregarded, to the floor. His fingers sought the tiny clasp which fastened her bra, uncovering her slowly, as if it were some sacred ceremony from an ancient, pagan ritual. He caressed each soft, naked mound in turn with hands and lips, circling the erect nipples with his tongue, smiling against her skin as he recognised the deep shudders of delight convulsing her.
She could feel the strength, the potency of his desire against her trembling thighs, meeting it with the satin moisture of her own excitement—her own passionate, inescapable longing. Her blood sang some languorous, siren chant in her ears, stilling the tiny voice which warned that this was wrong, that she was making herself vulnerable to yet more regret, more heartbreak.
And when his hand moved gently to push away the final silky barrier her whole being strained in eagerness and welcome. Her body opened in total candour to the intimacy of his exploration, the skilful, unerring glide of his fingers.
He sank to his knees in front of her, pressing his mouth to the slight concavity of her belly in an act that was almost homage. She felt him breathe, ‘Madonna Lily,’ against her skin, and her body contracted in a deep shiver of pleasure.
His tongue circled the intricate whorls of her navel then moved slowly downwards. His lips feathered kisses across her pliant thighs, before seeking the throbbing centre of her delight. His hands held her hips, urging her forward to meet the caress as his tongue explored her, flickered against her in overt eroticism.
Lydie could hardly breathe, every nerve-ending, every pulse caught up in the maelstrom of sensation he had created. She was swaying in his embrace like a flower tossed in the wind, eyes blind, ears deaf to everything but the small, imploring, uncontrollable noises being torn from her throat. Her own unspoken pleas for release. For fulfilment.
When, at last, it seemed as if she could bear no more, he swiftly undressed, lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
The sheets were cool, but his body, as he came to lie beside her, burned like fire. A flame that was unutterably, agonisingly familiar.
The years between them seemed to vanish out of existence, and for a few dizzy moments she let herself learn him again, running her hands from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers, from the nape of his neck down the long spine to the flat male buttocks. And finally over the strong thighs to his loins, where her hands found him, held him, worshipped him.
And, as he slid an arm beneath her, lifting her towards him, she guided him surely and joyfully into her.
All the soft, sweet moisture of her enclosed him, held him for one endless, intense moment.
When, eventually, Marius began to move, it was slowly and gently, almost as if he was afraid to break the spell that had them in its thrall.
The rhythm he initiated drew her immediately into its own inexorably deepening pulsation and evoked an equal and passionate response. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her slender legs locking round his hips as their sweat-dampened bodies rose and fell in the timeless patterns of love.
She was one with him. Every fibre of her being seemed concentrated in a relentless spiral upwards to some unseen pinnacle of rapture.
When the climax came, she felt as if she was being torn apart, and her cry of anguished wonder was crushed beneath his kiss as one wild, voluptuous spasm of pleasure succeeded another.
Marius’s face was taut, his throat muscles like thick cords as he reared above her. He ground out her name between clenched teeth as he drove powerfully for his own culmination, his body shuddering as it claimed its little death.
As their mutual storm slowly receded, she found that she was clinging to him, her face wet with tears.
His mouth touched her again, licking the salt drops from her cheeks, the tiny pearls of sweat from her breasts. Lydie lay pliant, her hand stroking his hair, as she savoured the delicacy of this new sensation. Discovered too, with a sense of shock, that she found it gently, insidiously arousing. Realised too that Marius’s fingers were insinuating a path between her thighs. And that, far from being sated, the core of her womanhood was opening to him once more in offering as he caressed her.
Her eyes widened in sudden disquiet. In disbelief. She tried to frame a protest through numb lips—attempted to push away that expertly marauding hand. And felt him smile against her skin as he forestalled her, capturing her wrists in his other hand and pinioning them unhurriedly above her head.
He said softly, ‘Oh, no, my sweet. You don’t escape that easily.’ He kissed her mouth slowly and thoroughly, tracing the faint swelling of her lower lip with his tongue. ‘We have a long way to go yet. A very long way indeed.’
At some point on the journey, her body racked with fresh paroxysms of delight, she heard him say, ‘This is the only reality, Lydie. So God help us both.’
The bed was a cloud, drawing her down, enveloping her in its softness. Her eyelids felt as if they had lead weights attached to them. In some dim recess of her mind she was aware of movement, of vague sounds, one of which might have been a door softly closing, but, exhausted by pleasure, Lydie burrowed deeper into her cloud, and slept on as if she had been drugged.
It was morning before she stirred, and sunlight was pouring through the half-closed drapes. She lay still for a moment, savouring the almost miraculous sense of wellbeing which pervaded her entire body, then turned, reaching out a drowsy hand across the bed to Marius, only to encounter the chill of emptiness.
As if some alarm had sounded, her eyes flew open, and she sat up, propping herself dazedly on her elbow, and stared around her, pushing back her tumbled hair.
But the room was empty—the space beside her in bed unoccupied.
She remembered the quiet noises she’d heard, and looked hopefully towards the closed bathroom door. Perhaps he’d gone for a shower. She listened intently for the sound of running water, but there was only silence.
In spite of the warmth of the room, Lydie felt suddenly very cold. She got out of bed and retrieved the robe, still lying crumpled on the floor with her underclothes. As she was tying the sash, she saw the envelope propped against the lamp on the dressing table.
The sheet of paper inside bore two laconic sentences. ‘It was a memorable parting. Goodbye, Madonna Lily, and good luck.’ It wasn’t even signed.
She stood staring down at his handwriting, feeling the words burn into her brain.
So that was it. All over and finished with, courtesy of a piece of hotel notepaper. A bubble of something like laughter welled up inside her and emerged as a sob.
But this is what you wanted, an inexorable voice in her brain reminded her. This is what you actually demanded, hours ago, in some previous existence.
You knew that you could have no future with Marius. That Darrell Corbin and her child would always stand in the way. You knew, as well, that he’s probably never given her a second thought from that day to this. How could you have imagined, even for a moment, that he would treat you any differently?
Because she’d fallen into the eternal trap for unwary women, she told herself as tears pricked savagely at her eyelids. Because she’d let herself believe the age-old myth that her love would somehow transform the man she wanted into a prince.
Because she’d hoped—prayed even—that, against all the evidence, he would indeed be different with her.
So, even knowing what Marius was, she had still fallen into his arms—allowed him to take her to paradise during one endless night. Nothing could change that—or excuse it.
She’d behaved li
ke a pathetic, lovesick fool, and now she had to live with that, and bear the consequences. And all she could pray was that they would prove to be solely emotional and not physical. Forging a new life for herself, establishing a new identity would be hard enough without the burden of single parenthood to weight her down.
It was the future she had to focus on now—channelling her energies towards some kind of new horizon. Though what it might be she could not even hazard a guess. All the delicious lassitude of her awakening had been transmuted into a profound and desolate weariness.
It took all the strength and self-control she possessed not to sink onto the ground and weep for love and its betrayal, as if she was mourning a death. Which perhaps she was.
But there was no time for grieving now. She had plans to make—her departure to organise.
And maybe there would come a moment when she would realise at last that Marius wasn’t worth the shedding of one solitary tear, and never had been. And, from that point, she would be able to begin the rest of her life in earnest.
But that, she admitted wretchedly, as shame joined with the pain inside her, was no consolation now, when she loved him and wanted him as much as ever. Or even more.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LYDIE showered like an automaton, standing motionless while the cascade of hot water pounded over her. She might rid herself of his touch, his scent, but the cleansing power of the water could not wipe away the memory of his caresses, the huskiness of his voice as he’d worshipped her beauty, or the faint marks of passion imprinted on her naked skin.
Nor could she forget how shamingly easily she had surrendered. How could she, in all conscience, despise Marius for his utter lack of principle when she had just proved herself to be no better?
Shuddering, she turned off the water and wrapped herself in one of the enormous bath sheets that the hotel provided. If only it were a cloak of invisibility, she thought desperately, which would allow her to vanish without a trace.
Instead, with a fastidious grimace, she had to redress herself in yesterday’s clothes, using the pocket comb in her bag to restore her dishevelled hair to some kind of order.
As she was about to leave, she suddenly remembered how she had flung her ring at Marius’s feet. A swift scan of the carpet revealed nothing and she dropped to her knees to peer under the bed and dressing table.
But there was no sign of the ring anywhere. Marius had apparently taken her strictly at her word, and, in spite of herself, she felt oddly chilled.
There was a rattle at the door and a chambermaid entered, arms laden with bedding and clean towels. She checked in surprise when she saw Lydie.
‘Sorry, madam. I thought the room had been vacated.’
‘Yes.’ Lydie scrambled to her feet. ‘Of course, it should have been. I was just going when I realised I’d lost something—an earring...’ Her voice trailed away as she saw the girl’s eyes rest pointedly on the pearl studs safe and well in her ears, and she felt herself flush in vexed embarrassment.
‘All lost property is handed in to management, madam.’ The chambermaid moved towards the bathroom. ‘You could always ring the hotel tomorrow, or call.’
She had one more humiliation to endure. When she arrived at Reception and asked for her bill, the girl, her eyes sharp with speculation, told her that it had been paid already and handed back her credit-card slip, torn neatly in half.
I feel like a call-girl, Lydie thought angrily as she wheeled away from the desk and marched, head high, towards the main swing-doors. I suppose I should be glad he didn’t actually leave some money on the night table.
She sat for a while in the car park, staring ahead of her, silently oblivious to the comings and goings of other vehicles, her mind turning slowly and painfully on her immediate problems.
She should, she knew, go back to Greystones. She needed at least some of her clothes and possessions before she walked away from her old life for ever.
But Marius might still be there too, and she felt too raw, too fragile to risk another meeting with him so soon.
But there was another confrontation which could not be delayed any longer, she decided grimly as she started the Corsa and headed it towards Wheeldon Grange.
The reception area of the health farm was all elegant pastels, with strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing discreetly in the background.
The girl behind the desk shared the muted chic of her surroundings. Perfect teeth were bared in an enquiring smile. ‘Madam has a reservation?’
Lydie shook her head. ‘I have to see Mrs Benedict urgently,’ she said. ‘She’s my mother.’
The girl consulted a computer screen and nodded. ‘She is expecting you, madam. The Blue Suite on the first floor, if you’d like to go up.’
Expecting me? Lydie bit back the surprised query, merely nodding and turning away towards the broad, shallow flight of stairs.
She knocked at the door of Debra’s suite and heard her mother say, ‘Come in,’ her voice sharply edged.
Lydie found herself in a small but luxurious sitting room. As the name suggested, the predominating colour in curtains and furnishings was blue, including even the robe that Debra wore and the silky turban her hair was swathed in. Standing by the sunlit window, she made a striking picture.
She stared at Lydie, her hand going to her throat. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I thought you were anticipating a visit?’ Lydie returned, her voice even.
‘Not from you,’ Debra said, with a small sob. ‘From Jon.’ Without make-up, her face was naked, vulnerable.
Of course, Lydie thought wearily, stifling an instinctive pang of sympathy. Not me. Never me. But this time she’s not getting away with it.
She said coolly, ‘I’d have thought Jon had enough problems at the mill without paying social calls during working hours.’
‘Working hours?’ Debra’s shrill laugh held a touch of hysteria. ‘That’s rich—when he’s just been sacked. Oh, yes.’ She nodded fiercely at Lydie’s astonished expression. ‘That’s been his reward for working himself into the ground for the Benedicts all these years. Instant dismissal.’ She lifted a shaking hand and pressed it to her mouth. ‘He rang me here an hour ago—more—to say he’d been told to clear his desk. He sounded—terrible—like a stranger.’
Lydie bit her lip. ‘I don’t think it can have come as that much of a shock. Jon was quite aware that he hadn’t been a resounding success as sales director. This could be the shot in the arm he needs to get his life and future together.’
‘With your hippy girlfriend, I suppose.’ Debra glared at her. ‘You’re talking like a complete fool. Where on earth is Jon going to get anything like the same position—the same salary—once it’s known he’s been fired from Benco? This is all the doing of your precious fiancé, of course,’ she added furiously. ‘He hates Jon for taking his place, and this is his revenge.’
Could it be true? Lydie wondered. Was this Marius’s way of exacting an eye for an eye? And would a tooth for a tooth follow? It didn’t bear thinking about.
She swallowed. ‘I hope very much that you’re wrong about that.’
‘Of course that’s what it is.’ Debra waved a dismissive hand. ‘But he’s not getting away with it. You’ve got to talk to him, Lydie. Make him see that Jon deserves another chance.’
Lydie shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.’
‘What?’ Debra’s eyes blazed at her. ‘You mean you take that—that creature’s side against your own brother?’
Lydie drew a deep breath. ‘It’s not a question of taking sides,’ she said flatly. ‘The fact is I no longer have any influence with Marius.’ If I ever did, she added silently. ‘We—ended our engagement last night. That’s one of the things I came here to tell you.’
‘You’ve broken off your engagement?’ Debra’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. ‘Are you completely crazy?’
‘On the contrary, I think I’m hanging onto my sanity by a whisk
er,’ Lydie retorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Mother. Don’t add hypocrisy to everything else.’
‘How dare you talk to me like that?’ Debra stiffened in outrage.
Lydie sighed. ‘No more pretence, please. I know exactly what you did five years ago. I know how you got rid of Marius.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Debra was suddenly ashen.
‘I’m talking about the lies you told Austin about him—about us.’ Her voice broke. ‘Mother, how could you? Don’t you realise you almost destroyed me?’
‘You were little more than a child. You didn’t—you couldn’t know your own mind.’ Debra’s tone was feverish, her eyes almost blank. ‘I saw you go to him that night. I couldn’t sleep and I watched you walking down the passage to his room. I told myself I should stop you—but I didn’t. It was a God-given opportunity to turn Austin against Marius for good. To make him believe that you were a victim of abuse—of rape, but too ashamed to speak about it yourself.
‘I knew Marius would write to you, so I instructed the school to intercept all letters except mine. I even had that note you’d written to me with the bursar’s bill for your extra art lessons—the one where you said you thought Austin should deal with it. And he played right into my hands.’
Her tiny laugh was, in spite of everything, almost exultant. ‘It all fitted perfectly. The one sin that I knew Austin couldn’t forgive. Because you were family.’
‘That’s sick,’ Lydie said with passion, and Debra glanced at her as if surprised.
‘But I had to be sure.’ She sounded as if she was offering a reasonable explanation. ‘Unless I got rid of Marius, there was no real chance for Jon. You must see that.’
‘And what about my chance?’ Lydie spoke quietly and desolately. ‘I loved Marius. You broke my heart.’
‘Hearts are soon mended,’ Debra said harshly. ‘If that bastard hadn’t come back you’d be planning your wedding to Hugh by now. As it is, you’ve lost both of them. I wash my hands of you.’