by Penny Jordan
When she returned to the house the first thing Philippa saw was Scott’s car parked outside. That meant that he was back, and she wondered bleakly if he had perhaps been to see Cara, in an attempt to get her to change her mind. She suspected that the only thing that would change Cara’s mind now was a wedding ring and Scott didn’t seem prepared to offer that.
She went upstairs to find Simon still in bed, but looking much more cheerful than he had done that morning.
‘You realise that you’ve been very, very rude, don’t you, Simon,’ she chastised him gently, ‘and that it was quite wrong of you to say what you did?’
‘It was true, he was in your bed, I saw him.’ He sounded truculent and avoided her eyes. Suppressing a sigh Philippa took his hand. It was larger than her own, brown and thin, but still a child’s hand.
‘But it isn’t true that we’re going to get married, you know that Simon.’
‘Well, I didn’t want her to marry him. What will happen now?’
‘Well, first you will have to go and apologise to Sc… to Mr Garston.… Cara is leaving tomorrow, so there won’t be time for you to go and apologise to her.’
She saw the relief lighten the strain in his eyes and tried to squash her feeling of sympathy. It was very hard at times, being a single parent, there were some situations she just did not feel equipped to deal with and this was one of them. The trouble was that she shared Simon’s feelings and yet she knew that she must make him see that his behaviour had been very wrong.
‘Will Scott… Mr Garston make us leave?’
If only he would, Philippa thought wryly. ‘I don’t know, Simon, we shall have to see, but we’ll have to leave sometime you know.’
‘I wish you would tell him about me.’
Here was the nub of the problem, and Philippa didn’t know what to say to him. In other circumstances she could have approached Eve and asked for the benefit of her experience and wisdom, but Eve had her own axe to grind in this matter, and Philippa suspected would recommend that Scott was told the truth.
‘Simon, I know how you feel, believe me, but I can’t tell him. Not at the moment.…’
‘Why? He’s my father and I want to be with him. It’s not my fault that you lied to him.’ His face was flushed and Philippa could see that he was working himself into a distressed state. The dreadful thing was that she felt she had no defence. How could she explain to Simon the complexities of adult relationships or expect him to understand them? What if he decided to take matters into his own hands and to go to Scott himself? She shuddered, forced to face the fact that Scott would probably reject him. What damage would that do to Simon psychologically?
‘Simon, I can’t tell Scott about you while we’re living here; that wouldn’t be fair to him or to you. Please try to understand. You’ve known the name and identity of your father for some time. Scott has no idea that he has a son. It’s bound to come as a shock to him, but I can appreciate that you feel he is your father and you want him to know, so, when we get back home, I’ll write to him and explain. But only if you promise me that you won’t say another word about this—to anyone—while we’re here.’
It was moral blackmail, something she had always avoided, but what alternative did she have? To say that Scott would be shocked was putting it mildly, but how could she explain to Simon without increasing his distress that Scott was more likely to reject than accept him?
‘All right then, but just a long as you promise to write to him?’
‘I promise. Now would you like some supper?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Philippa had little doubt that he was punishing her, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to blame him, and tiredness dropped on her like a heavy cloak as she stood in the door of his room and studied his thin hunched body, his head turned away from her. He was so like Scott, no wonder Eve had spotted it.
She had to walk past Scott’s room to reach her own, and as she did so she caught the sound of activity inside, and remembered Sir Nigel’s message. Her ex-boss had told her that he would be in his office until eight, which left plenty of time for Scott to ring him, but on impulse she knocked on Scott’s door. He might be planning to have dinner out for all she knew and she didn’t want to miss him.
She heard him call out a muffled ‘Come in,’ and turned the handle, opening the door.
The bedroom was empty, the door that led into the bathroom standing ajar.
‘Yes, what is it, Mrs Robinson?’ she heard Scott call from inside it, and tensed, her voice suddenly deserting her. A lean brown arm thrust the door open followed by the rest of him, the brief towel secured round his hips brilliantly white against his tanned flesh.
‘Philippa!’ Just for a moment he seemed shocked, and she had a brief, unguarded glimpse of the Scott she had once known, but almost immediately he recovered, his voice a taunting drawl as he murmured, ‘Well, well, what a charming surprise. What happened. Did you get tired of your lonely bed? Or has young Simon been putting ideas into your head? Are you having second thoughts about my suitability as a husband? If you are I’m afraid you’re eleven years too late. I’m a good deal wiser now than I was then.
Colour flared in her pale face, and she was acutely conscious of how tired she was, how hot and sticky she felt, her body burning beneath her t-shirt and skirt, her eyes drawn against her will to the damp expanse of Scott’s chest. Dark hair formed a virile cross on his body and Philippa remembered with unwanted clarity the way her fingers had traced it not so very long ago. Her mouth was dry with tension and she touched her tongue nervously to her lips, shivering when Scott’s gaze locked on the betraying movement, his eyes darkening until they were almost black.
‘I’ve come to give you a message,’ she told him hurriedly, ‘from Sir Nigel, my ex-boss. He wants you to ring him.…’
‘Why, to plead with me to send you back? Is he the reason your body trembles whenever I come near you, Philippa? Is he your current lover?’
‘No!’ The denial was wrenched from her and she stepped backwards nervously as Scott came towards her. She could smell the soap he used, every one of her senses alive to him as he stood over her. How could he be unaware of the effect he had on her? Shamingly her breasts responded immediately to his proximity, heat filling her veins, her body yielding meltingly.
‘He thinks he may have a customer who could be interested in your new computer.… He wants to talk to you about that.…’
‘Does he now! What’s this supposed to be? Compensation for costing me the American contract?’
Angry colour flamed in her cheeks. ‘Certainly not. If you must know, it’s nothing to do with me, Sir Nigel’s idea entirely. He simply thought he’d do a fellow businessman a favour. He isn’t like you,’ she added sarcastically, gasping when Scott’s fingers grasped her arm and he hauled her round to face him. So close to she could see the fine droplets of moisture clinging to his skin, her nostrils full of the warm clean smell of him. She tried to take a pace backwards, wanting to put a safe distance between herself and the sensual torment of Scott’s body, but his grasp on her wrist only tightened.
‘No. I’ll bet he isn’t,’ he grated, watching her closely. His face looked taut beneath his tan, his eyes darkening with a savagery that made her muscles tense and coil in mute alarm. ‘But then he doesn’t know the real you, does he, Philippa? He doesn’t know how readily you sell yourself to the wealthiest bidder.’
‘Just as you were prepared to do to secure the American contract,’ Philippa flung back at him, too angry to heed the warning light glittering in his eyes. ‘How sanctimoniously you criticise me, Scott, but you aren’t exactly pure as the driven snow yourself, are you? Or are you going to tell me you are genuinely in love with Cara?’
‘Love? That’s an emotion you wouldn’t begin to understand. Love is for fools and weaklings as far as you’re concerned, isn’t it? Tell me, have you ever actually loved anyone? Ever given anyone anything other than your delectable wanton body? Have yo
u, Philippa?’
He was shaking her now, so caught up in his own anger that she sensed that he was barely aware of how much he was hurting her, his fingers biting deeply into her skin as he gave way to the rage simmering inside him and let it erupt fiercely, scorching her with words that burned like red hot brands.
‘How dare you speak to me like that? Of course I’ve loved. I love Simon, I.…’
‘You loved his father, is that it?’ Scott demanded, thin-lipped. ‘But he left you to bear his child alone, didn’t he? He didn’t love you enough to give you his name, isn’t that the truth?’
‘Yes. Yes, I loved Simon’s father,’ she agreed wildly, not allowing herself to think of what she was admitting. ‘And if you want the truth, I still love him, I…’
She came to an abrupt halt just realising where her heated words were leading her, her eyes unknowingly hazed with pain. It was too late to recall her impulsive words and far, far too late to pretend to herself that she hadn’t meant them. Scott’s rage had set off an explosion inside her that had totally destroyed her defences, and now it was too late to recoil from the truth.
‘You still want him,’ Scott grated. ‘Well, you’re just going to have to make do with me, aren’t you?’
His fingers imprisoned her wrists just as she lifted her hands to fend him off, forcing them behind her back and using this superior strength to propel her against the hard length of his body. Fear skittered wildly inside her, her pulses thudding in sensual response.
‘Scott, don’t do this,’ she protested, sensing the sexual urgency building up inside him, and wondering if it was anger that had sparked it off, or her tactless reference to Cara.
‘Shut up, Philippa,’ she heard him say thickly as he lowered his head, ‘unless you want to make me even angrier than I already am. You owe me this.’
She jerked her head back, feeling the bones in her neck snap painfully, her manoeuvre to no avail as Scott anticipated her and used his free hand to grasp her, his fingers tightening into the thickness of her hair, holding her motionless and defenceless as his mouth bruised hers, his teeth nipping painfully on her lower lip.
She held out against him as long as she could, her body stiff with tension and anger, and as though he sensed that she would not give way beneath the pain he was inflicting on her, the pressure of his mouth eased slightly, the fingers clamped to her skull deftly massaging her taut flesh, soothing away the tension she was using to hold him at bay until she could feel it virtually flowing out of her body, to be replaced by a mindless, heady langour; a heat that warmed her skin and drained her resistance.
‘I want you, Philippa, and you want me too, for all that you pretend you don’t.…’
The words were muffled against her mouth but they hurt like tiny darts in her heart, inflicting pain, reminding her of what he really thought about her. She managed to pull away from him long enough to say bitterly, ‘According to you I want most men I come into contact with.… How does it feel being one of a crowd?’
If she had meant to taunt him into releasing her with her bitter words, she had failed miserably Philippa recognised as the pressure on her aching wrists and the base of her spine increased until she was intimately aware of Scott’s body, and its hardening arousal.
‘Right now this is what I feel,’ he told her thickly, watching the recognition dawn in her eyes and with it a sexual excitement she couldn’t quite conceal. This was what love did to you, she thought weakly, it made you vulnerable, dangerously so. ‘And you feel it too.’ There was triumph in the mockingly spoken words and in the glittering eyes that searched her face for more evidence of betrayal. Scott released her wrists, his hand sliding up under her t-shirt, tracing the line of her vertebrae, making her body shudder deliciously in pleasure. She was dying, drowning in a vast, silent pool of warm water, drowning and not even wanting to do a thing about it. ‘Philippa.…’
His voice was tense with hunger and excitement, his mouth hot where it burned against her skin; the tiny, thready pulse thudding in her throat; the exposed curve of her shoulder where his teeth nipped delicately at her soft flesh, his hand cupping the warmth of her breast, his thumb.… Reality shuddered through her and she pushed bitterly away, not knowing which of them she hated the most. He was destroying all that she held most sacred; all the precious tender memories she had held on to during the lonely years, savaging and destroying them with his experienced seduction of her senses, with his kisses that told her how much he wanted her and how little he loved her.
‘Oh no, not this time. We’re not playing that game again,’ he warned her acidly. He took a step towards her and Philippa backed off instinctively, both of them shocked by the sudden intrusion of the brief rap on his door.
‘I’ve brought up your tea, Mr Garston.’ With Scott’s attention deflected to the door and his housekeeper, Philippa was free to escape, using the communicating door between their rooms, locking it feverishly behind her, before subsiding on to her own bed, trying to ignore the dull ache that radiated from the pit of her stomach. She had wanted him and in another few moments she would have let him make love to her, regardless of how much he despised her.
She covered her face with her hands, trying to stop her body from trembling. Dear God, what had she come to? He was like a drug to which she had no resistance at all. He simply had to be in the same room and her senses reacted to him; when he touched her she went up in flames, and only the fact that he didn’t know the truth about Simon and the past, could keep him from guessing exactly how much she still cared. And if he should guess? That was something so potentially humiliating that her skin crawled with heat and agony at the mere thought of it.
She was in her bathroom, showering, trying to suppress her potent memories of Scott’s body clad in nothing other than that brief towel, when she remembered that she had never asked him to release her, or talked to him about her concern for Simon. It would have to wait for another occasion now and one, preferably, conducted in such circumstances that she would not be sidetracked from her purpose by the distracting ache of hunger that always seemed to enfold her when she was with him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ON Saturday morning Philippa woke up early. She had promised to take Simon to York and needed to do some shopping herself. The very hot weather they were having showed up the deficiencies in her wardrobe, which was more geared to lower temperatures, and she was tired of wearing her one and only denim skirt for work every day. That wasn’t the reason she was awake at half-past six though. No, the explanation for her inability to snatch more than a few hours rest lay on the other side of the communicating door, no doubt enjoying the dreamless and restorative sleep that was denied to her. Forget Scott if just for today, an inner voice urged her; forget him.
Unfortunately that was easier said than done, and as she showered Philippa found herself remembering how she had felt when he touched her; how her body had melted with a sudden onrush of heat that had stunned her. He wanted her he had told her and in his arms with his body enforcing its masculinity on her she had felt that wanting and known that it sprang from the same deep craving which motivated his desire to enforce his power over her. He enjoyed humiliating her, Philippa acknowledged wearily; and if he ever guessed how much she still loved him.… But if he knew the truth.…
If he knew the truth it would make no difference that same inner voice warned her; all he would do was use it against her. He was too bitter… too hard for her to reach him now. He wouldn’t surrender his resentment of her lightly; it had become an intrinsic part of him, something he needed to fuel his drive to succeed.
She shivered, half shocked by how easily she could dissect his deepest feelings. This was what love did to you; it gave you an insight, a power that was as much a pain as a pleasure. It brought her no pleasure to know that if she had not allowed him to think she had deserted him Scott would probably have never made his company the success if was. Bitterness, hatred, resentment had that effect on people; it made them hungr
y. Happy people, contented people, were people who laughed at ambition, who turned their backs on the competitive world. Happiness had never spawned an empire-builder.
She reached out for a towel, wrapping it round her body, tensing as she remembered the look in Scott’s eyes that first time he had made love to her after he had forced her to come here. ‘I pretended you were Geoff,’ she had told him and there had been a look in his eyes then that warned her that her remark would not go unpunished. ‘I want you,’ he had said to her, and only she knew how close she had come to replying, ‘I want you, I love you.’
Was that what he was doing, baiting the trap by using the desire he could obviously sense she felt for him, hoping to use it against her, forcing her to admit.… What? That she loved him? No doubt in his eyes such an admission would be fitting recompense for what he saw as her treachery all those years ago.
She heard her bedroom door rattle and stiffened, but it was only Simon, come to see if she was dressed. ‘There’s only one bus every two hours,’ he reminded her. ‘If you don’t hurry, we’ll miss the next one.’
They ate breakfast alone. Eve was presumably still in bed, but Philippa wasn’t sorry to be alone with her son. This intimacy Scott had forced upon her, this sharing of the minutiae of their lives, much as though they were a long-married couple, was something that disturbed her. Sometimes in the morning, responding automatically to his request for another cup of coffee she could almost allow herself to be deceived into thinking they were married. Weakly she allowed her thoughts to drift, caught up in a pleasant world of makebelieve, jerked unpleasantly back to the everyday world when Simon said wistfully, ‘I wish my… Scott was coming with us.’
‘Simon.…’ She saw how truculent he was looking and sighed, stretching out her hand to ruffle the dark hair, so like Scott’s in colour and texture, ‘Simon, I’m so sorry,’ she said it softly, as though unwilling to utter the words. She ought to be reminding him of his own bad behaviour not apologising to him, but deep down inside her was a relentless sense of guilt which would not let her rest. If she could have perceived this day before she had lied to Scott, would she have still taken the same road? She had hurt Simon by lying to Scott, and she had no idea exactly how much damage she had done to her son in her pathetic attempts to save his father.