by Sara Craven
When the actual moment for the awards came, Briony quite enjoyed handing over the small silver replica of quill pens, and the accompanying cheques, and uttering a few shy words of .congratulation to writers, photographers and artists who had been merely names to her up to now.
She was just beginning to shed some of her inhibitions and enjoy being the centre of the stage, when she became aware of a man watching her across the room. For a moment their eyes met and locked, and Briony was teased by an odd sense of familiarity. But she knew he was not one of those she had met at the dinner.
And in the same moment she realised that the expression in the aquamarine-pale eyes, looking her over from head to foot, was neither paternal nor deferential. It was coolly challenging, even faintly amused, and it told Briony quite clearly and unequivocally that wherever the sex war was waged, this man would expect to emerge as a victor. Nor did she have to wonder how anyone of her age and inexperience, only recently released from the shelter of school, could have known this. It was pure instinct, and she recognised it as such.
But all the same, she turned away hurriedly, aware that embarrassment mingled with indignation was heightening the colour in her face, and was annoyed to find that her mind still retained an image of him, tall and lean, his tawny hair bleached into blond streaks, and his eyes startlingly pale against the deep tan of his face.
All she had to do, of course, was wait until her father deep in conversation with Hal Mackenzie, the editor of the Courier, the group’s leading and influential daily paper, was free, and then ask the man’s name. But she was reluctant to do this, for reasons she only dimly perceived herself. Something told her that if her father wished her to know this man, then he would have arranged for there to be an introduction earlier in the evening.
In the event, she did not have to wait to be told who he was. When the time came for the prestigious ‘Journalist of the Year’ award to be made, and the name Logan Adair was called, he walked forward. As she picked up the award, Briony discovered crossly that the palms of her hands were damp, but she managed to present a calm exterior as Logan Adair shook hands, first with her father, who was murmuring a few conventional phrases of congratulation, and then turned to her.
She said politely, ‘Well done, Mr Adair,’ in a small, cool voice, and held out his award and envelope.
Everyone else had taken their award, thanked her, shaken hands and walked away, usually back to the bar with illconcealed relief. But not Logan Adair.
He said with elaborate courtesy, ‘On the contrary, thank you, my dear Miss Trevor,’ and his hand reached out to clasp not her fingers as she expected, but her wrist, pulling her forward towards him slightly off balance, so that she looked up in quick alarm and saw the amused glint in his eyes before he deliberately lowered his mouth to hers. The pressure was quick and light, and casual in the extreme, so there was no reason on earth why Briony should jerk back as if she had been branded, only to find the little incident had been witnessed in -the loudest silence she had ever heard.
Logan Adair said smilingly, ‘A pleasure to have met you, Miss Trevor,’ and turned away.
Briony’s cheeks were stained with bright colour and her fragile poise was shaken to its core. The chatter round the room had broken out again, but too loudly, and out of the comer of her eye she saw Sir Charles, frowning thunderously, wheel on Hal Mackenzie. She wished with all her heart, in spite of her embarrassment, that her father would treat it as the joke it had undoubtedly been, or else forget it altogether, but she knew this could never happen.
Sir Charles was well known for his ambivalent attitude to the empire he controlled, she thought unhappily. He was proud of his newspapers and magazines and the influence they wielded, yet he had little time for the rank and file journalists and photographers who provided the words and pictures for his millions of readers to pore over. United Publishing had had its fair share of industrial troubles in the past, and Briony was aware that many people in the organisation believed that their chairman’s intransigent attitude towards his workforce was at least partly to blame.
‘What Charles would really like to see would be complete automation in the industry, complete with robots to press the right buttons,’ an old friend had
remarked recently at a private dinner party, and though Briony had joined in the laughter which followed the comment had troubled her slightly. It occurred to her that a news’paper’s quality was largely dictated by the people who wrote for it. People like Logan Adair, whose byline appeared above hard-hitting eye-witness reports from the trouble spots of the globe.
Briony had seen his name often in the Courier, and had looked out for his stories, relishing his laconic style and the dry humour with which he often laced the bitter truth he had to tell. She knew from comments she had heard that he was regarded as one of the-feathers in the Courier’s cap, and that there were plenty of rival newspapers who would have paid over the odds to obtain his services, but she was also aware that her father did not share these sentiments.
She heard Hal Mackenzie say placatingly, ‘Sir Charles, isn’t this all rather a storm in a tea-cup?’ and walked away hastily. The presentations were over, fortunately, and someone had opened the french doors at the end of the room which led out on to the rooftop terrace. She was glad to be able to escape there, and glad too to find herself alone. If indeed she was alone. She’d only taken one long steadying breath of the crisp night air when she was aware that she was being watched, and turned quickly. When she saw just who it was standing between her and the door, she stepped back involuntarily, her heart missing a beat.
Logan Adair said acidly, ‘There’s no need to panic, Miss Trevor. Our brief encounter just now didn’t drive me so mad with desire that I’ve rushed out here to ravish you: ‘Then why precisely did you-rush out here, Mr. Adair ? To insult me again?’
The pale eyes held a wry gleam as he looked at her.
He said, ‘My God, that has the authentic Trevor stamp on it! As a matter of fact, I think I had some vague idea of making amends, but I’m sure your father’s daughter would regard that as a sign of weakness, so I think I’ll return to the more congenial atmosphere at the bar: He was already turning away as she said,
‘I’m sorry if I overreacted. You – startled me, that’s all. ’
‘And not for the first time this evening, ’ He shook his head slightly. ‘I always understood that sweet sixteen was the limit for never having been kissed. You’re two years out of date. ’
‘How do you know how old I am?’ she demanded.
‘Elementary, my sweet. The Courier too has its gossip column, and your eighteenth birthday was featured with photographs-remember? “The lovely Briony Trevor comes of age” it said, rather predictably. Claridges, wasn’t it? My invitation must! have been mislaid somewhere. ’
She tried to match his own light tone. ‘You mean you would have accepted one?’
‘Probably not,’ he said drily. ‘But I think I’d make a point of being around the day you really come of age: There was a sudden stillness between them, a tension that was almost tangible. He hadn’t really retreated at all, Briony realised. He was still firmly entrenched between her and the door that led back to the party and safety. She felt herself becoming flustered and knew it was important to conceal the fact.
She said rather hurriedly, ‘Why did you do it? Kiss me, I mean?’
‘Call it an irresistible urge. ’
‘Do you often have them?’
‘Not as often as I seem to be having them this evening,’ he said mockingly, and grinned at her. ‘I must admit the original urge was more to test the depth of that immaculate boarding school poise rather than to arouse wanton desires in your undoubtedly virginal breast. I also wanted to annoy your father. ’
‘Well, you’ve succeeded in that,’ she said coldly, oddly disappointed that he apparently had seen her as a schoolgirl to be teased.
‘So I noticed. I think poor old Mac is being ordered to carpet me first th
ing on Monday morning-or fire me at the earliest opportunity. Probably both. And if your father realised I was alone with you now, he wouldn’t even wait for Monday morning. ’
‘I think you’re exaggerating,’ she said. ‘You don’t fire the Journalist of the Year simply because he annoys you at a party. ’
‘You might do, ’ he said. ‘If you were Sir Charles Trevor, and if the journalist in question had been a thorn in your flesh for some considerable time: His lips curled slightly. ‘And as it looks as if I’m going to be hanged anyway, it may as well be for a sheep as a lamb … ’ He took an unhurried step forward and his arms reached for her, drawing her effortlessly against him.
‘You should have been kissed before, Briony,’ he said huskily, and then his mouth came down on hers.
His lips were warm and seeking and very enticing.
Her arms slid up around his neck, almost of their own volition, holding him closer still as the kiss deepened from the gently exploratory to the frankly demanding.
In the end it was Logan who pulled away, his breathing a little ragged, his eyes narrowing speculatively as he looked down at her.
‘I don’t know what you have in mind for the remainder of the evening,’ he said with a touch of grimness. ‘But I sure as hell know it won’t be what I’m thinking of right now, so I think you’d better return to the safety of your father’s side, Miss Trevor. Believe me, It will be better for both of us.’
‘Scared, Mr. Adair?’ Briony’s heart was pounding suffocatingly as she looked up at him through her lashes.
She was being deliberately provocative and she knew it, enjoying the first heady taste of a woman’s power over the man who finds her desirable.
‘Hardly, Miss Trevor,’ he drawled. ‘But I guarantee you would be, if I decided to continue this romantic moment to its obvious conclusion. Don’t play with fire, darling, because it’s a very good way of ending up scorched, and I imagine Daddy would prefer to hand you over to the bridegroom of his choice not even slightly singed. ’
She felt destroyed by his cynicism. She said angrily, ‘You’re not irresistible, you know. And I’ll choose my own husband!’
‘Brave words: He smiled faintly. ‘But you’ll need more than that to stand up against your father. Believe me, I know. ’
She was just going to ask him how he knew-to demand the information if necessary, when a woman’s voice said impatiently, ‘Logan, so this is where you’ve got to!’
Briony recognised her instantly. It was Karen Wellesley, the Courier’s women’s editor, a slim shapely blonde in her late twenties, with one broken marriage already behind her. Karen moved forward to Logan’s side, sliding an openly possessive hand through his arm.
‘Good God,’ she remarked rather blankly as her exotically made-up eyes fell on Briony. ‘I do hope I’m not interrupting anything. ’
‘Nothing at all,’ Logan assured her coolly. ‘MissTrevor and I were just having an interesting discussion on the nature of choice, but we’d reached stalemate: ‘That’s all right, then: Karen smiled blindingly up at him. ‘The party’s beginning to break up, and I thought you might like to take me somewhere to celebrate your award. ’
He said lightly, ‘I’d be more than delighted, my love, if MissTrevor will excuse us. ’
Briony said, ‘Of course: She gave them both a taut little smile. ‘If the party’s breaking up, then my father will be ready to leave. ’
She walked past them, her chin in the air, and made for the lighted doorway. She was thankful to see her father absorbed in conversation with some of the members of the Board, his bad humour apparently forgotten for the moment.
‘Hello, sweetheart: His glance smilingly embraced her as she joined him. ‘Where have you been?’
‘1-1 went out ‘to get some air,’ she said. ‘I think I have a headache starting. Do you think we could leave soon?’
He was all concern, immediately getting someone to ring down and have his car brought round to the main entrance of the building, fussing protectively as one of the maids hired for the evening went to fetch Briony’s wrap. They were standing waiting for the lift to come up, surrounded by a small group of her father’s colleagues from the upper echelons of management, when Logan came out of the penthouse suite into the corridor, with Karen moulded so closely to his side that a casual spectator might have assumed she was welded there. And Briony discovered to her acute vexation that she was far from being a casual observer.
She transferred her attention almost painfully to the row of lights which indicated the floor that the lift had reached, and saw with relief that it was almost at the top.
She heard Logan say, ‘Come on, love. We’ll walk down two floors. There’s something I want to fetch from my desk.’
She felt them move away. She wouldn’t let herself turn and look, because she knew it would cause her pain.
As the lift descended Sir Charles said abruptly, ‘You behaved very well this evening, Briony. I was pleased with you.’ His brow darkened. ‘I’m sorry that Adair fellow couldn’t behave himself,’
Briony said with difficulty, ‘It–it really doesn’t matter, Daddy. It wasn’t important.’
Her father snorted, but made no further comment, to her relief. In the car the inevitable briefcase was produced, and he became immersed in his papers while Briony sat quietly, a prey to her thoughts.
There had been a lot of first times that evening, she told herself. Her first really adult party, her first kiss, and now the realisation that one’s first awakening to the demands that passion might impose was not necessarily a happy one, because where passion went, jealousy and loneliness trod on his heels.
And lying in bed that night, Briony thought of Logan and Karen together, and was both jealous and lonely.
Briony roused herself with a start, becoming aware of her surroundings again, dragging herself back half-unwillingly to the present.
Jealousy, loneliness and pain, she thought unhappily, as she knelt to tend the fire which had burned low during her reverie. Those ugly words seemed to encompass the whole miserable history of her brief marriage. Why hadn’t she realised that first night what would happen, and held aloof? But she knew the answer to that-because she was already in the thrall of an attraction which she was not experienced enough to resist. And besides the undoubted glamour of Logan Adair’s personality, there had also been the beguiling prospect of living dangerously, of rebelling against her father’s plans and prejudices. It was a situation fraught with pitfalls, but quite irresistible to the child she had been.
If her marriage to Logan had taught her nothing else, she thought detachedly, it had taught her to put away childish things.
But, if this was true, why had she run away? That was the act of a child, not’ the woman she believed she had become.
It had been the shattering shock of Logan’s return which had forced her into flight, she thought. For months she had lived with the knowledge that he was dead–executed in the Middle Eastern oil state of Azabia ,where he had been covering a revolutionary coup by the new government. ‘A spy for the Western
powers’, the brief communique had stated. No further details had been given, and his body had not been returned. The Embassy could do nothing because they were themselves enduring a state of siege for some weeks following the coup, and were later evacuated.
But the report of Logan’s death had seemed more like an epilogue than the finale to the tragic farce that had been their marriage. The news had shattered her, yet their relationship had finished long before Logan ever left for Azabia, Over, she thought, her lips twisting painfully, … almost before it had begun, in disillusionment on her side and contempt on his.
But even if things had been different, could such an ill-matched marriage ever have stood a chance? she. wondered sadly.
Even on the first evening they had met, she had been aware of the gulf which yawned between them. Logan at thirty-four was a man of the world, cynical, knowledgeable and experienced. She had b
een a naïve schoolgirl, looking for a hero to worship. Only Logan had no wish to be cast in the heroic mould. He’d made that clear from the beginning, but she wouldn’t listen. She’d been deaf to every hint, every warning except the clamouring of her own instincts, and they had played her false.
She had found it difficult to sleep that night after the party–the first of many sleepless nights. And she was being a fool, she told herself, as she viewed the shadows that sleeplessness had left under her eyes. So she had been kissed. So what? A lot of girls her age were already married, and mothers, not necessarily in that order. Just because she had spent the last few years at a school where even the most casual relationships with the opposite sex were frowned on it didn’t mean she had to make a big emotional deal out of one kiss.
She found herself wondering if she would have been doing all this heart-searching, if she had been kissed by one of the young executives who had been discreetly clustering round prior to the awards presentation.