Nervously Quincy walked beside him up the short flight of steps into the elegant Edwardian atmosphere of the Palm Court bar, her eyes absorbing the streaked pink marble of columns, the potted palms and gold-leaf decorations which were reflected in enormous mirrors giving the spacious room an impression of even greater width. The head waiter greeted them with a smile, led them to a table at one end of the room, and Joe seated Quincy on the brocade-covered couch, seating himself beside her. Champagne in a silver ice bucket was waiting for them, the bottle masked by a white damask napkin.
'Shall I open the champagne now, sir?' the waiter asked. A tall, elegant man with black hair, he gave Quincy a friendly smile as he poured the straw-coloured wine into her glass, but although she smiled back she was still too aware of Carmen and the photographer to relax. Joe waited until the waiter had moved away, then leaned forward and said to Carmen: 'That's enough for the moment, isn't it? Why don't you two come back in an hour and get a few pictures of us at dinner, then we can enjoy our meal in peace?'
Annoyed, Carmen began: 'But…'
'Off you go, Carmen,' Joe interrupted, his tone firm, and, with a scowl, she walked away with her photographer at her heels.
Quincy gave a long sigh of relief. Joe's dark eyes slid sideways, amusement in their depths. 'Feel better?' he asked with a slight mockery behind his voice, as though Quincy's nervous dislike of being watched was foolish. No doubt it was, she thought, as she sipped her champagne and let her gaze wander around the room, but she couldn't relax while she was conscious of the photographer, whose antics had already attracted far too much attention to them. The bar was crowded, all the other tables already occupied, and she saw several well-known public faces, but although people had clearly recognised Joe this was not the sort of place which encouraged clients to make a public display or show curiosity in any of the famous guests. People politely looked away, pretended not to have noticed them.
The tables were small, topped with grey-streaked marble, with pink velvet-upholstered chairs around them. One side of the rectangular room was dominated by a small fountain whose centrepiece was a rocky edifice surmounted by golden figures, naked nymphs and mermaids, with fretted green ferns around the base.
'How do you like the Ritz?' Joe asked, watching her over the rim of his glass.
'It's very ornate,' Quincy said doubtfully.
He laughed. 'The decor is a mixture of Art Nouveau and Baroque. The hotel was built seventy-five years ago. Cesar Ritz was a Swiss who already had a luxury hotel in Paris—both of the Ritz hotels were built to give the same air of timeless elegance. One day you must see the Paris Ritz—you can eat your dinner in a beautiful little walled garden, with fountains playing, and white statues standing under plane trees—it's a very romantic setting. They have a pianist playing Gershwin in the bar and 'Stars in the sky…' He grinned at her, wicked teasing in his face.
'You can order the stars from the menu, I suppose,' Quincy retorted.
'At the Ritz you can get anything you want,' Joe mocked. His glance moved sideways to touch the waiter refilling their glasses with champagne. 'Isn't that so, Mr Michael?'
'Certainly, sir,' the waiter agreed with a twinkle.
'Even stars in the sky?' Quincy demanded, and he bowed.
'Whatever my lady wishes,' he assured her, but added: 'I am sure Mr Aldonez does not need to look at the sky for stars while he has my lady's beautiful eyes to look into.'
Quincy began to giggle and he moved away, laughing. Joe sipped his champagne, watching her. 'Not so nervous, any more?' he asked and, with a surprised face, she shook her head. Although the hotel was so luxurious and stately she found it had a relaxed atmosphere which made her feel at home almost at once.
'When you come to New York, you'll find the Plaza very much like this,' Joe told her as they looked through the menu and chose their meal. 'I prefer hotels like the Plaza to the more modern skyscrapers—there's a more human atmosphere. In the huge modern hotels I feel like a battery hen!'
When they were told that their table was ready in the dining-room, they walked along the cream and gold gallery, on smoothly textured floral carpets, into the candlelit shadows of the famous Ritz dining-room. Quincy looked up at the ceiling, painted blue to represent a summer sky, with fluffy white clouds here and there, and an ornate chain of heavy gilt flowers suspended from it in a great oval ring like metal Christmas decorations. On the pink damask tablecloth stood pink carnations, and giant mirrors threw back a swimming reflection of herself and Joe, their faces dim in the candlelight. She crossed her fingers under the table. Please, she thought, don't let Carmen and that photographer come for a long, long time. She wanted to cherish this romantic interlude, to be alone with Joe in the candlelight, for as long as possible. It would be the last memory she would carry back with her to her home. She would never see him again after tonight, but at least she would have a wonderful memory to keep for ever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carmen and the photographer reappeared just as they were finishing their meal and took some more pictures before joining them at the table to have coffee, after which they all left and drove to a night club where they were given a small table in a private corner. The photographer took a few more shots of Joe and Quincy dancing on the shadowy little dance floor, then he left, and a few moments later Carmen went, too. Quincy and Joe stayed. People stared and whispered, but nobody quite liked to speak to them. Joe's dark eyes took on a remote expression if they happened to pass over a stranger. Quincy would not like to be anyone daring enough to risk his anger by approaching them— although he smiled down at her with a gentle mockery, somehow he managed to look very formidable when he was looking up.
'When do you fly back to the States? she asked while they were sitting at their table drinking some more champagne.
'Tomorrow,' he said.
She looked into her glass to hide the stiffness of her smile. 'I expect you're looking forward to getting home.'
'Yes.' His voice was clipped. 'And you?' he asked. 'Are you longing to get home, too?'
'Oh, yes!' said Quincy with an extreme enthusiasm which, to her own ears sounded slightly phoney. Ever since she got to London she had been telling herself how much she wished she had never left home, and now, with her return to the security of her family close at hand, for some unaccountable reason she felt like crying. She drank some more champagne, but it had little effect other than to make her spirits sink even lower—maybe it was the champagne which was making her want to burst into tears like a child and stamp her feet, she thought. What else could it be?
Through her lowered lashes she peeped at Joe and found his face in profile to her, the gleam of the brown skin lit by candles, his nose an arrogant sweep above a hard, fierce-looking mouth. Her heart plunged as he turned his head towards her and put a cool hand on top of one of her own.
'Shall we dance?'
As they got up the music changed to a slow, dreamy waltz and Joe drew her into his arms, one hand curving around her slender waist, the other clasping her fingers loosely. The floor was crowded, they had to dance slowly, almost at a shuffle, their bodies so close that Quincy felt the warmth of his thigh against her, communicating a restless heat to her skin and making her stomach tighten in unwilling attraction. Never before had she ever been so conscious of a man's sexuality. A slow-burning fuse had been lit inside her and she was growing lightheaded as it fizzed through her body. Joe moved, shifting closer, his arm tightening around her waist. She felt his long fingers just below the uplift of her breast, his body warmth penetrating her thin silky dress to make her own skin prickle with awareness.
'Still sorry you agreed to come to London?' he murmured, his lips close to her ear, the feel of his breath against her skin.
A trembling sensation started inside her, as if she had swallowed a butterfly which was fluttering around in an attempt to escape.
'I suppose not,' she said huskily. She kept her eyes lowered, afraid to look at him, because the drastic things he
was doing to her heartbeat had frightened her. He was too attractive, it was dangerous to let herself meet those wicked dark eyes which were gleaming like jet through his lashes.
'You look beautiful tonight,' he whispered. She felt his lips graze her ear, follow the delicate convolutions of it with tactile sensuality.
Before she could pull away, or protest at that, she felt his mouth softly sliding down her throat and her pulses went crazy.
She reminded herself that his intentions were strictly dishonourable, he was only amusing himself with her, and if she let him go on with this gentle seduction she would find herself in a situation which could only lead to heartache for her.
Her throat hurt, dry with aroused excitement, but she made herself say: 'I think we should go now, it must be getting late and I have to get up early to catch the train home.'
She half expected Joe to protest, but he led her off the floor without a single word, and within ten minutes they were back in the waiting limousine and driving back to Lilli's flat.
It wasn't until the car had pulled up and she was climbing out of it, her head bent, carefully lifting up her long white skirts to avoid treading on the hem, that Quincy realised that they had not returned to Lilli's flat at all. They were outside Joe's hotel. She turned at once, alarm in her face, but the limousine had begun to glide away and she walked straight into Joe.
'What are we doing here? I want to go back to my sister's flat!' she protested angrily, her head lifted to stare at him.
'The night's still young,' Joe said smoothly. 'I thought we'd have a peaceful nightcap together before I took you back.'
'Do you think I'm stupid?' Quincy retorted, bristling with alarm and anger. 'I'm not going up there with you—get that car back and take me home, or I'll get a taxi!'
'I've ordered some supper for us,' he said. 'Carmen and the photographer are waiting to take some final pictures.'
Quincy stared at him, her eyes uncertain. Was he telling the truth?
He gave her a mocking little smile. 'What a suspicious mind you have!' His hand curled round her arm and he led her into the hotel before she had time to consider what she should do, walking with her to the lift, talking softly in the hushed night-time atmosphere of the hotel lobby.
'I'd rather go straight back to Lilli's flat,' she said weakly as the lift door closed on them and they climbed to the floor on which Joe's suite was situated.
'Relax and enjoy yourself,' said Joe with a smile that took her breath away. She looked down nervously, alarmed by her own response, knowing her heart was beating like a wild tattoo inside her chest and her body was trembling.
When they reached the suite he pushed open the door and Quincy walked past him. The, rooms were dark and empty. As Joe flicked down the light switch, she turned on him angrily.
'You lied! Carmen isn't here!'
'Isn't she?' Joe asked, but as Quincy darted back towards the door his arm barred her way. 'Where are you going?'
'I'm not staying here alone with you!'
'Why not?' he asked coolly, holding her. 'What are you scared of?'
The question choked back the flood of furious words which were about to burst out of her. She glared up at him, her green eyes glittering. He knew very well what she was worried about! There was taunting amusement in his face, he was daring her to admit that she was afraid that he might seduce her, and such an admission would be dangerously revealing. Joe could only succeed in seducing her if she wanted him—by admitting that she was afraid, she was admitting that she was attracted to him.
'Why did you lie to me? You knew Carmen wasn't here! You didn't arrange for any final photographs!'
His mouth twisted sardonically. 'I wanted to bring you here and I knew you wouldn't come unless you thought we wouldn't be alone.'
'That's despicable!' Quincy flung at him.
He shrugged and her eyes nervously watched the little movement, made aware by it of the power of the slim body under that elegant dark suit. The smooth tailoring could not hide the strength of his muscled chest—Joe Aldonez was a tough customer, for all his charm, a man whose face could look as if it had been carved out of granite. Quincy stiffened, hearing the silence of the empty suite beating around them, reminding her that they were alone, and that if he used force she would not be able to do much about it.
'I'm not in the habit of forcing myself on women,' he said, as if he read the thought in her eyes. 'You've no need to shiver in your shoes.'
'I'm not shivering in my shoes! I just don't like being lied to,' said Quincy, her chin raised defiantly. 'Will you take me home, please?'
He turned her towards the sitting-room, his arm controlling her, and said: 'Come and have some supper first.'
'I'm not hungry!'
He said so softly she only just heard him, 'Quincy, don't make me angry! This is our last evening together, don't spoil it.'
She was silent, a quiver running through her. Heat burned behind her lids, she swallowed on a lump in her throat, afraid she was going to cry. She barely knew him. Why on earth should she feel like bursting into howling tears?
He took off the little fur jacket she wore and gestured to her to sit down on the brocade couch, then picked up the phone and rang room service. 'We'll be ready for our coffee in ten minutes,' he told them, and put down the phone.
A cold buffet had been left on a table for them. Joe put some blue-green quails' eggs on a plate, added some caviar, and brought it to her with some wafer-thin curls of cold toast.
'I'm not hungry,' Quincy insisted.
'Try a quail's egg,' he said, and went back for some of the food for himself.
Quincy hesitated, then decided that a pretence of eating the food would at least keep them safely occupied until she could again insist on being taken home. She nibbled at a tiny egg, bit into a thin crisp of toast. Joe poured her some champagne and she refused to drink it. She had already drunk far more than she normally did and she knew she was lightheaded with the wine. She needed to be more clearheaded than usual right now, she did not want to go floating in a golden bubble of champagne-induced happiness. The whole evening was taking on the appearance of a dream—she looked back on it dazedly, her senses assailed by a dozen glamorous memories of chandeliers and flowers, candles and champagne, music and shadowy rooms.
The coffee came and she took hers black—it might wake her up, pierce the bubble of excitement she had been trapped inside. It did not seem to have much effect. Each time Joe leaned forward, or shifted beside her, she felt her nerves quivering with reaction.
When he took her cup out of her fingers, she sat stiffly upright. 'I really must be going!'
He put the cup down and, as she rose, fastened his fingers around her wrist and jerked her back.
'Don't!' Quincy said hoarsely, too late, and found herself pulled on to his lap. Her head whirled as she was tilted backwards against his arm. The champagne was making her dizzy, she decided, grabbing at his shoulder to steady herself. 'I don't want you to touch me,' she muttered, knowing her face was glowing poppy red.
'Liar,' Joe whispered, bending towards her, and his lips grazed gently over her flickering lashes, forcing her to shut her eyes. It was rather restful, she felt, as the light of the room vanished. Joe's lips glided right down her nose and she began to giggle, wriggling on his knees, until they reached their intended destination and closed over her parted lips. As she felt the hard, male mouth take possession of her own her body was wrenched by a sense of need that took her by storm.
Her hands went round his neck, her body curved towards him, and with a helpless, restless sigh of pleasure she met his kiss with a hunger which matched his.
She had known perfectly well that if she stayed here alone with him, this would happen—Joe's intentions had been obvious to her ever since the night he spent on the couch in Lilli's flat. He was a sophisticated man who had travelled all over the world and had presumably forgotten most of the women who had lain in his arms like this—his teasing, arousing kisses
had been learnt with experience, whereas Quincy was entirely untutored, her mouth softly submitted to him with an innocence she couldn't disguise from him. Desire was mounting inside her like some elemental force she had no idea how to control; her husky little moans of pleasure stifled by Joe's searching mouth.
'I need you,' he whispered hoarsely, his lips wandering down her throat to explore the warm cleft of her white breasts, and she shook like a leaf at the sound of his voice, her eyes closed to shut out the light, her hand lifting to stroke his tumbled hair as his black head burrowed into her.
'You're so warm and soft, I want to hold you in my arms all night and wake up feeling you close beside me,' he said, his hands moving in slow, seductive caresses that sent her temperature climbing. She was lost in a burning sensuality, abandoned to the wild fevers of a desire she had never known before, wanting him so much it was like dying, an extremity of passion which held her speechless and helpless in his arms.
When a sudden blinding light exploded close beside them she was too dazed for a second to think. Her lids fluttered as she was broken out of her trance of excitement. The next second she heard Joe's voice swearing thickly and he had leapt off the couch.
Quincy opened her eyes, blinking, so startled she didn't move, staring as Joe broke into a run in pursuit of the man leaving the room.
Quincy just had time to see the camera the other man held before he and Joe had vanished. The sound of their struggle brought her to her feet, swaying, shocked and suddenly icy cold.
Angry voices, a crash, were followed by the slam of the front door of the suite.
While Quincy struggled to pull herself together, Joe came striding back into the room, a camera dangling from his hand. He walked to the telephone and lifted it, dialled. 'This is Mr Aldonez,' he said in a deep, harsh voice. 'A press photographer just broke into my suite and took a picture of me. I want him stopped before he gets out of the hotel and charged with breaking and entering, and I want to know how he got in here. I don't expect to have pressmen wandering in and out of my suite as though it was public property, I don't pay the fantastic sums you charge to have my privacy invaded by anyone who cares to open my door.'
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