She brushed her hair until it gleamed, golden lights among the rich chestnut strands, and took care over her make-up, outlining her lips with a warm pink and brushing pale green eye-shadow across her lids.
The finished result was hardly going to set the world on fire—and would certainly not set Joe Aldonez on fire, Quincy thought, then bit her lip, angry with herself. Who wants to set him on fire? she asked her reflection crossly. Are you crazy? Will you stop thinking like that?
Her green eyes flashed back at her like exploding fireworks as she turned hurriedly away. Her mind was in a state of total insanity, she admitted. It wasn't so surprising, the last twenty-four hours had been enough to turn any sane girl into a gibbering idiot, but Quincy was not prepared to forgive herself for letting her head whirl over a man who was only using her to get himself some big publicity.
From downstairs her mother's voice called frantically: 'He's here! Quincy, he's here!'
He? Quincy thought, jumping about six feet into the air, her nerves jangling. Who does she mean? Not him, not Joe Aldonez, surely? He wouldn't have come himself. She had imagined he would send a chauffeur or possibly that dreadful Billy Griffith.
She ran to the window but was too late to see who had arrived. A gleaming white Ferrari sports car was parked outside the house, but whoever had been driving it had been admitted downstairs, she heard her mother talking in excited tones.
'Quincy!' her mother called up the stairs. 'Aren't you ready yet, darling?'
'Coming!' Quincy called back, her voice low and husky. She took a final, nervous look at herself in the mirror. Who was that strange girl staring back at her with huge, glazed, bright green eyes, her skin a hectic colour and her mouth not quite steady?
She walked down the stairs, carrying the picture with her, unreality settling around her like a brittle shell, sealing her off from the true impact of what was happening to her.
Joe Aldonez stood in the hall with her mother. His eyes lifted to drift over Quincy as she came down towards them, and if it had not been for the protective shell she had managed to seal around herself she might have turned tail and bolted from him in trepidation, but, wearing a stiff set smile, she went on down the stairs, her head lifted, moving as gracefully as she could on legs that trembled.
'Here she is,' Mrs Jones said triumphantly, as though Quincy was making some grand entrance.
'So I see,' Joe Aldonez drawled as Quincy looked at him, her eyes dazzled by the sun shining into them, seeing him through a vivid halo of dancing light. 'I've put your case in the car,' he added. 'Are you ready?'
'Mr Aldonez is going to drive you there himself,' her mother pointed out.
'Joe,' he urged, turning his quick, warm smile towards Mrs Jones. 'Everyone just calls me Joe, except my mother.'
'What does she call you?' Quincy asked with a dry-ness she hadn't intended, surprised for some peculiar reason at the idea that he had parents like everyone else. There was something so different about him, a special magic centred on his name, which seemed to set him apart from the rest of the human race. Every time she saw him she felt a jab of disbelief.
He had turned his glance back to her, those eyes of his glittering jet beneath his winged brows. 'Jose,' he said. 'That's what I was baptised.'
'That's Spanish,' Mrs Jones said curiously.
He nodded. 'My mother is Spanish and my father is of Spanish descent although he was born in California.'
He grinned, a rakish amusement in his face. 'So was his father,' he added. 'My family came to the States a hundred years ago. I'm a fourth generation American.'
'Have you ever been to Spain?' asked Mrs Jones, and he shook his head.
'But I mean to try to see some of it while I'm over here in Europe,' he told her. 'I've promised my mother I'll visit her family if I get time. She was over there last year, but I was too busy to go with her.'
'Does she live in California?' Quincy asked.
He nodded. 'My family have some orange groves there—the land has been in the family for over fifty years. My grandfather bought it during the Depression.' His eyes danced. 'He won some money in a poker game and he'd have lost it the same way, if my grandmother hadn't taken it out of his pocket when he was asleep and hidden it. She talked him into buying the land before she told him where the money was—a very determined woman, my grandmother.'
Quincy was fascinated and could have gone on asking questions, hoping by his answers to make herself believe he was real and not some dark fantasy conjured up from her own imagination, but he looked at his watch and said: 'Time to get moving, I'm afraid.' Holding out his hand, he smiled at Mrs Jones. 'Nice to know you, Mrs Jones—I'll look forward to seeing you again real soon.'
Fluttered and flushed, Mrs Jones followed them to the door and stood there, waving, as he put Quincy into the passenger seat of the sleek sports car. Quincy looked back at her mother with a drowning sense of alarmed dismay. Mrs Jones waved vigorously as the engine fired and the car drew smoothly away from the house, putting on speed at once, the elegant lines of the vehicle built for the race track as much as for the busy roads, taking them shooting past every other car without effort.
Joe glanced sideways at her, his brows meeting. 'Do up your seat-belt.'
Something in the cool arrogance of the tone made her sit up, bristling. She obeyed, but gave him a look which brought another of those glinting little smiles her way.
'Feeling belligerent this morning, are we?' he asked in a soft, taunting voice. 'I had the feeling you were when you came downstairs. Had some second thoughts about coming to London?'
'I don't know why I ever agreed,' she admitted, hurling the words at him like little sharpened flints.
'Too late to change your mind now,' he said, putting on even more speed as he hit the motorway going to London, the beautiful streamlined car flashing along the fast lane while every other driver gazed in envious reverence at it as it passed them.
'You know I'm going to stay with my sister, not with Miss Lister?' asked Quincy, her chestnut curls fluttering around her face in the slipstream of cold air blowing around her.
'Your mother mentioned it,' he agreed. 'She said your sister was a dancer—what sort of dancer is she?'
'She's part of a dance group who appear on television and who do cabaret now and then—they're called The Panthers.' The family were very proud of Lilli, she was the nearest approach to a star they had known before Joe Aldonez erupted into their lives.
'How many dancers in the group?' Joe asked.
'Fifteen,' said Quincy, realising he had never heard of her sister's act. Lilli wasn't in the superstar bracket, of course, but maybe one day she would be—she was very beautiful and talented. Quincy wondered suddenly, with a funny little twist of dismay inside her, what Joe Aldonez would think of Lilli. Every other man Quincy had ever met—apart from Brendan—had fallen for Lilli on sight, bewitched by her fiery hair and lovely face. Quincy secretly viewed the man beside her through her lowered lashes. Would he fall for Lilli, too? What if he does? she asked herself impatiently— what difference would it make to you, you idiot? He's flashed into your life like a comet and he'll flash out again in a few days.
They slowed as they met an incoming stream of traffic and someone in another car stared, open-mouthed, at Joe Aldonez. Quincy saw his involuntary grimace as he realised he had been recognised. The white Ferrari roared away, leaving the much slower car behind, and Joe leaned forward to open the glove compartment in front of him. Quincy watched him take out some dark glasses and slip them on, their mirror lenses completely hiding those eyes of his. His lean, tanned face took on a new air, making it far less likely anyone would recognise him now.
'Where did you stay last night?' she asked him, and he turned, the lenses flashing blankly in her direction.
'We all went off to a hotel in Bath,' he said. 'Carmen and Billy drove back to London a couple of hours ago.'
'Why did you come to pick me up?' she asked, and saw his brows lift at the question
, adding hurriedly: 'I thought you'd send someone.'
'I was driving back, anyway,' he drawled. With those dark glasses on she had no idea whether he was smiling or not, his mouth had a curve even in repose which was misleading.
'Aren't you worried that someone will recognise you?' she asked and he grinned.
'In this case they would need to have wings to catch up with me!'
Quincy looked around at the soft white velvety leather upholstery, the gleaming chrome of the dashboard. 'It's a beautiful car.'
'I like cars,' he said. 'The faster the better,' and put on yet more speed, sending her heart into her mouth.
'I don't like driving fast!' she gasped, clutching the edge of her seat as she swayed with the car. 'Slow down! The speed limit is only seventy miles an hour over here.'
He slowed, giving her a teasing look. 'I'd forgotten— I don't want to get picked up for speeding, do I? Now that wouldn't be good publicity?'
'Is that all you ever think about?' she accused.
'I've had to learn that I'm a public figure,' Joe told her with a wry intonation, shrugging. This morning he was still wearing that black leather jacket, but the shirt under it was black silk today. It hugged his muscled body just as smoothly, the collar open, giving her a glimpse of his strong brown throat. She wondered idly if that tan was habitual, did he do a lot of sunbathing in California? His face, hands, neck were a uniform golden-brown—did the rest of his body match? A sudden wave of heated colour spread up her face as she realised what she was doing—imagining him without the expensive silk shirt and the tight-fitting jeans. Her mind really had gone haywire, she scolded herself, averting her eyes. What was the matter with her?
'Want some music?' he asked, leaning forward again to switch on the car radio. They didn't talk for a while, driving so fast that they ate up the miles to London without Quincy being aware how far they had gone. On the motorway the countryside looked so similar wherever you were—just green fields and cows and dreaming elm trees on either side with the white concrete ribbon of road unwinding in front of you.
When one of his own records came on, Joe gave a little groan and put out a hand to flick the radio off. 'No, thanks,' he said under his breath.
'Don't you like to hear yourself sing?' That idea had never occurred to her.
'By the time an album is released, I'm sick to death of hearing myself,' he confessed drily. 'First you have hours of rehearsing, then hours of recording and re-recording—I find I've lost the ability to hear a song by the time I've sung it a hundred times. I never listen to my own recordings, only ever those of somebody else.'
'How did you get into the music business?'
'By accident,' he said. 'I was singing at a party, someone heard me—and next thing I knew I was signing a contract. Once upon a time singing was fun— now it's my job.' He turned his head, black hair blowing wildly around his tanned face. 'If you have illusions about the business, forget them. I work very hard, for very long hours. I used to escape from work on my father's orange trees to sing—now I try to escape from singing to give Dad a hand.'
Quincy listened, frowning. He was altering her whole idea of the sort of life he led. Was he being honest?
'How often do you go home to see your family?' she asked, and he shrugged.
'Not as often as I'd like—it's the only place in the world where I can be myself without being watched.
The older I get, the more I value my home. I'm very lucky. My parents haven't changed an inch. My mother will still give me a tongue-lashing if she thinks I need it.' His sideways smile was mocking. 'You should meet her, I've a feeling you two would get on like a house on fire.' He looked back at the busy road. 'She's a very real woman, too.'
Quincy was taken aback by that remark, flattered by it despite her inner resolve to remain untouched by anything he said.
They made London inside three hours and would have got there earlier if the traffic had not thickened as they approached the capital, and slowed the white Ferrari down.
'Lilli lives in Chelsea,' Quincy said as they fought their way into the inner city.
'Would you mind if we call in at my hotel first?' he asked, glancing at her. 'Carmen will be waiting there for us and I'd better let her know you won't be sharing her flat. A change of arrangements could annoy her, I warn you.'
'I'm sorry, but I'd rather stay with my sister,' Quincy said, and he shrugged, his face not easy to read.
She was not looking forward to confronting Carmen Lister—the other girl had made a very unfavourable impression when they met. Quincy felt herself tightening up inside as she followed Joe into the hushed environment of one of London's most exclusive hotels. He looked at her, taking off his dark glasses, and began to smile as he absorbed the defiant flush on her face.
'Getting ready to do battle?' he mocked. 'Think you can take Carmen on, do you? She's a tough lady.'
He collected his key at the desk and walked along the carpeted gallery to the lift. Quincy stood beside him as it rose smoothly, her eyes avoiding the betraying reflection of herself in the mirror-lined walls. She did not need to see herself to know that her green eyes were hectic, her face taut. What could Carmen Lister do to her, anyway? she asked herself. Quincy did not enjoy arguments, but she had no intention of backing down on this one. She would feel much happier if she was staying with Lilli, and Carmen Lister was not talking her out of it.
Joe had a large suite overlooking one of London's royal parks, and, as they let themselves into it he called out: 'Billy? We're here!'
There was no answer, the rooms lay silent and, apparently, empty, in the spring sunshine. Joe walked ahead into a spacious, beautifully furnished sitting-room and stood there, twirling the doorkey on one finger as he looked around.
Arrangements of spring flowers stood around the room; blue iris in velvety sprays, daffodils and delicate white narcissus, their scent filling the air. A white envelope was propped against one vase. Joe walked over and picked it up, pulled out a sheet of paper and read it with a slight frown. Quincy stood nervously near the door, feeling shy and out of place in the luxurious surroundings.
Looking up, Joe said wryly: 'They're both otherwise occupied, it seems. Do you want to ring your sister and see if she's home?'
Quincy nodded, relieved not to have to face Carmen Lister after all. She picked up the phone and dialled Lilli's number. There was no reply and slowly she put the phone down. Joe was watching her.
'No answer?'
She shook her head, wondering what to do now. It had not occurred to her that Lilli might not be home.
'Why don't we have lunch up here?' Joe asked. 'I don't know about you, but I'm ready to eat a rare steak.' He picked up the phone and rang room service without waiting for her to answer. 'Steak okay for you, too?' he enquired only after he had dialled the number.
'Yes, thank you,' she said, very politely. There was something about the sunny silence of the large suite which made her uncomfortably aware of being alone with him.
'Medium?' he asked, and she nodded.
'French fried or just salad?' he asked, and she told him salad would be fine.
He ordered for them both, adding a request for a bottle of wine. As he put down the phone he made a little face at her.
'Judging by my previous experience of this hotel that will take them a good half an hour,' he said drily. 'Take off your coat, it's warm in here.'
She unbuttoned her camelhair coat with fingers which were not very steady and Joe took off his leather jacket and flung it over a chair. He moved so lightly that she wasn't aware of it until she felt him right behind her, sliding her coat off her shoulders, his cool fingers brushing lightly against her neck. A shiver ran through her and she involuntarily flinched.
'Don't get uptight,' he said in a brisk voice. 'I'm not about to make a heavy pass.'
'I didn't think you were!' Quincy denied, her face flushing.
'You're lying in your teeth,' he accused, tossing her coat down on top of his jac
ket, the little movement tightening the fit of that silk shirt, making her very conscious of the powerful lean body under it. He put a finger on the side of her throat where a tiny pulse was beating violently. 'What's that?' he asked, angry mockery in his black eyes. 'Do you think I don't know your heart's going like a steam-hammer?'
'Not for you!' Quincy mumbled incoherently, pulling away. 'You don't make my heart miss a beat, Mr Aldonez. If I'm flushed, it's the central heating in here, it's far too warm.'
'Oh, is that what it is?' he asked in a soft, intimate voice which made her swallow with alarm, taking another step nearer, making Quincy instinctively back even further. Her legs came up against the elegant brocade couch behind her and, off balance, she abruptly sat down on it.
That was a mistake. Joe was sitting beside her a second later, his thigh against her, leaning towards her, his body twisted so that he could look into her startled, alarmed eyes.
'Can you see in the dark?' he asked.
The question baffled her. 'What?' she said, totally at sea. What was he talking about?
'You have eyes like a cat,' he explained. 'As green as grass and full of spitting defiance—I wouldn't like to feel those little claws, I bet they're as sharp as razors.' His fingers curled round one of her hands and lifted it, spread across his palm, the pearly nails gleamed. 'They don't look sharp,' he added, his mouth curving in a smile. 'But I suspect they're as deceptive as the rest of you.'
Quincy looked at him uneasily—he was flirting with her quite deliberately, she was not so innocent that she did not understand that. At such close quarters he was almost hypnotic, a man of sexual magnetism who knew precisely how he could affect a woman when he looked into her eyes, the self-assured glitter of his dark gaze riveting her attention in spite of her common sense. The fact that he had 'dangerous' written all over him merely intensified the threat he exuded. Quincy could not help wondering what it would feel like to be in his arms again, to have that firm, male mouth compelling her lips to submit. When he kissed her the first time she had been too dazed to enjoy the experience—it had happened too fast, too inexplicably. In spite of her determination to be calm and controlled whenever he was around, she had been a prey to helpless fantasies about that kiss, wishing she could run the moment again, like some slow-motion replay.
A Wild Affair Page 4