Jennie gave a hollow laugh. ‘Everything. He’s my self-appointed moral guardian, didn’t you know?’
‘Sounds familiar,’ gritted Shelley. ‘Drew knows best. Or thinks he does.’
‘Exactly,’ sighed his sister, briefly forgetting sibling loyalty. ‘And basically he disapproves of Jamie because Jamie can’t provide for me in the way that Drew thinks he should.’
‘You may think this is none of my business—’ Shelley took a last mouthful of tea and stood up ‘—but Drew is the world’s biggest control freak—he always has been. And it’s your life, not his. We only get one bite at the cherry—so don’t let him make you live it in a way which makes you unhappy!’
‘If only it were as simple as that!’
‘Everything is as simple as you make it,’ said Shelley fiercely. ‘Believe me. If you want Jamie then you’ve got to fight for him.’ The way she should have fought for Drew. She’d thought that for a long time afterwards until she had realised that those kind of reflections would get her precisely nowhere. She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time I was going. lf the Westward won’t take me—’
‘Then come back!’ said Jennie impulsively. ‘I mean it.’
‘I know you do. And thanks. Thanks for the tea, too.’
‘But I’ll see you again, won’t I?’ said Jennie. ‘Once your house is habitable enough to move in. You aren’t just going to take off somewhere again, are you?’
‘Who knows?’ said Shelley truthfully. She didn’t know how living back in Milmouth would affect her. Seeing Drew some days—maybe most days. Especially if he was involved with someone…
‘Does Drew have a girlfriend?’ she asked Jennie suddenly, then wished she could have bitten the question back. ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t fair of me to ask you.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Jennie agreed. ‘Though it’s understandable. He doesn’t talk about his personal life to me! Though I guess if there was something really serious going on I’d know about it.’
‘But I suppose he’s been out with other women since I’ve been away?’
Jennie looked at her in exasperation. ‘It’s been three years, Shelley—of course he has! Why, he still gets mail from some of the women he met when he was travelling—and you know how long ago that was!’
‘You won’t tell him that I wanted to know? He might take it the wrong way.’ Or the right way.
Jennie shook her head. ‘I can’t promise not to tell him, not if he asks. He’s my brother and I love him. And you hurt him, you know.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Shelley. ‘I’m the one who has to live with what I did.’ But in the end she suspected she had hurt herself far more… ‘Goodbye, Jennie,’ she smiled.
But once outside there was no need to keep up the pretence and the smile fell away as she slid into her car, not switching on the engine until she had composed herself. Then she found herself revving up like a racing driver, until she remembered where she was, and she drove almost sedately up the winding cliff road towards the Westward Hotel.
The late afternoon sun was pale and golden and the tall maritime conifers which lined the coastal road leading to the hotel gave the place a very European flavour.
But Drew’s words came back to haunt her as she approached the hotel. This had been where Marco had brought her. Where she, foolish girl that she had been, had sealed her fate—her head turned by expensive wine and extravagant gestures.
Yet she had passively agreed to let Drew book her a room here, without bothering to challenge his assertion that she wouldn’t find one anywhere else. Was that simply because she was exhausted from travelling, or because she had always found the force of his character too much to withstand? Maybe he thought that a night at the Westward would unsettle her enough to make her leave as abruptly as she had arrived.
She eased her foot off the accelerator, seriously tempted to go and search out a place advertising bed and breakfast.
But a little B and B was bound to have a curious landlady. Someone who might know her, and her history. At least this place was big enough to provide the privacy and the solitude she craved—if only for tonight, until her turbulent emotions had settled themselves down.
She drove in through the gates of the Westward and parked the car, immediately noticing how the surrounding grounds had been spruced up. The gardens and flower-beds didn’t just look immaculate—they looked as if they’d been lovingly re-created by someone with an instinctive eye for colour and harmony.
The hotel had been built as a private home at the end of the last century and stood overlooking the bay, silhouetted against the intense light which glittered in off the sea. It had always been an impressive building, but its star had been on the wane when Shelley had left.
Now she could see that money and love had clearly been lavished on it since her last visit—for the once crumbling brickwork had been righted, the paintwork replenished, and tired-looking guttering replaced.
It would not have looked out of place in any of the most upmarket European resorts, she decided as she carried her bags into the main hall, where the light spilled rich, royal colours through stained glass onto the polished wood floor.
The woman behind the reception desk looked up and smiled and Shelley was even more taken aback. Even the receptionists seemed to have had a revamp! This one had dark, glossy red hair and the luminous pale skin which sometimes accompanied it—accentuated by the iris-blue suit she was wearing. She looked about the same age as Shelley but there all similarity ended—because her well-groomed serenity couldn’t have provided more of a contrast to the crumpled sight that Shelley must have made.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘I’m Shelley Turner,’ she answered, wondering why she found herself suddenly feeling ever so slightly intimidated. She was used to quiet luxury. She looked around. There was no sign of Drew, and she didn’t know whether to be glad or sad. Should she mention him by name? ‘Did a man—?’ Now how stupid did that sound? ‘I believe someone may have tried to reserve a room for me?’
‘Yes, they did, Miss Turner,’ said the woman smoothly, without even bothering to look down at her reservation list. ‘You’re in the Lilac Suite. Shall I have someone take you straight up there?’
‘Suite?’ Shelley squeaked. The Westward had gone decidedly upmarket if it was now providing suites! ‘I didn’t want a suite! Nothing grand—just a room for the night, that’s all.’
‘I’m afraid that was the only one available.’ The woman shrugged apologetically. ‘Of course, if there’s a problem with that, I can speak to—’
‘No, there’s no problem.’ She was dying to ask for a price list, but didn’t dare. She’d stayed in enough plush places with Marco to know that if you had to ask how much something cost, then that implied you couldn’t afford it! And, no matter how much it cost to stay at the Westward, she could certainly afford one night.
The woman gave a polite, professional smile. ‘Then I’ll have someone show you upstairs, shall I, Miss Turner?’
‘Yes, please.’
A porter took her bags and led the way up the curving staircase and right along to the end of a portrait-strewn corridor, where he flung open a pair of double doors. Shelley peered over his shoulder and became aware of a room which was softly glowing in pale shades of pinkish-violet. Slinky, sensuous and decadently sumptuous. She blinked.
This? In Milmouth?
‘The Lilac Suite, miss.’
She fumbled around for a tip.
‘That’s very kind of you, miss. Will you be wanting anything else?’
‘Not at the moment, thanks. What time is dinner?’
‘We start serving at seven-thirty, miss.’ He closed the door quietly behind him.
Once he’d gone she looked around properly. It was the most amazing room she had ever seen—and she was no stranger to amazing rooms. Acres of mauve carpet, as soft and rich as velvet, while the vast four-poster bed was partially concealed by heavy and lavish hangings in l
ilac picked out with gold. The colour scheme was echoed by the silky curtains which were draped in shimmering lilac columns at either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
And the view…
Shelley walked over to one of the windows and gazed out with pleasure at the uninterrupted view of the English Channel, and it took her breath away. How had she forgotten just how stunning her childhood home could be?
Further exploration revealed that the adjoining bathroom had an old-fashioned claw-footed bath the size of a small swimming pool. Now that was what she needed more than anything else!
She turned the taps on, added some essence, and let the water gush in while she undressed, jerkily peeling off the white lacy underwear she had bought in Milan. She tossed it in a filmy heap on the floor, thinking ruefully that she’d better invest in something more substantial now that she was back.
When the bath was almost full, she climbed in and sank beneath the foam, sighing with sheer pleasure as the warm water caressed her skin like silk.
She washed her hair, then lay back, feeling her body begin to relax properly for the first time since Marco had told her that he had fallen in love. Love. Horrible word. What did it mean? It meant disruption, that was what it meant! The perfumed vapour enclosed her and she felt her eyelids grow heavy as sleep—or something very close to sleep—claimed her senses and she gave herself up to it.
She didn’t hear the bathroom door slide slowly open or the momentary pause before it was eased shut again, but something must have registered in her subconscious because when she opened her eyes again it was to see Drew standing there, very still, just watching her.
It was too unexpected and much too close to fantasy for her to make any initial reaction other than one of dazed recognition. She sank a little lower into the bath water as she stared up at him. And there was a lot to stare at. In the confined space of the steamy room, his long legs seemed to go on for ever.
The jeans which she had admired on the beach—was that really just a few short hours ago?—looked even better on closer inspection. Soft blue denim brushed against taut thigh, whispered against knee and tapered down to ankle.
Her eyes drifted upwards, to where the simple white T-shirt hugged exactly where it should, caressing the firm, tight flesh of his torso like a lover.
The steam and fatigue had lulled her. The cloudy mist which had moistened the air now clogged her brain with sensation. Sapphire eyes blazed down at her in silent question, and beneath the warm, creamy foam Shelley felt the flowering of desire.
‘Drew!’ she breathed.
‘Hello, Shelley.’
She sank down even deeper, so that the visible swell of her breasts was covered by the little islands of foam which floated on the surface. ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered, wondering why she wasn’t screaming at him to get out.
‘Truthfully? Apart from getting more turned on by the second? I’m just fantasising about what lies beneath all those bubbles.’ His mouth tightened. ‘And realising that I’ve never seen you completely naked before. Do you realise that, Shelley? Incredible, isn’t it, when you think about it?’
Desire shafted a path from the tips of her breasts over the soft curve of her belly, and beyond, where a moist, slow throb had begun to torment her.
‘Drew.’ It was meant to be a protest, so why did it come out as some aching little plea?
‘I’ve seen you in a swimsuit many times, of course,’ he said, matter-of-factly, with all the passion of someone describing a computer program. ‘And once—just once—when you were topless on the beach. Do you remember that, Shelley?’
Of course she remembered. How could she ever forget? But it had been a long time since she had allowed herself to think of it in any detail. She shook her head. ‘N-no. I don’t think so.’
‘Then let me refresh your memory.’
‘Drew—’
‘You were seventeen.’ He cut across her weak objection, his voice low and deliberate. ‘And it was the end of that long, baking summer just before I went travelling. Remember that? It was so hot and so still that every breath you took seemed to scorch the lining of your throat. You and a couple of the other girls were sunbathing behind the rocks in that little cove further up the bay. Now do you remember?’
She nodded, her lips too dry to speak, despite the dampness of the steamy air.
He narrowed his eyes, taking in her inertia and her heavy eyelids. ‘You’d all stripped down to bikini bottoms. And yours was gold—so that it looked all hard and shiny—yet it clung like syrup to the curve of your hips. And I didn’t even notice the others. I couldn’t see them. All I could see was you. You. And your skin was glistening, just as it’s glistening now. Soft, creamy breasts topped with tight little rosebuds…’ He let his voice trail away.
‘Drew, please—’ she managed, wondering whether he knew that those rosebuds were tightening now beneath the concealing blanket of foam.
‘I’d been running and I was pouring with sweat, and I saw you stretched out on a towel with your arms raised so languidly above your head, and I could barely move—’ It had been one of the most exquisitely frustrating erections of his life, and in forcing himself to quell it he had only succeeded in making himself ache all the more.
‘Drew, don’t—’ She moved her hips restlessly. ‘Don’t…’
Ignoring her plea, he simply stared very hard at her. ‘And do you remember what I did next?’
‘You shouted at me and threw me your T-shirt,’ she responded dully. ‘And told me to cover myself up.’
‘So I did.’ He gave a disbelieving laugh as he recalled the hypnotic lure of seeing her pale flesh contrasted against the darker curves of the baking pebbles. That lure had kept him abroad far longer than he had intended, for he’d seen the danger she represented—a danger he had not contemplated at that stage in his young life.
Yet, perversely, the more he denied it, the more her allure had stubbornly refused to go away. And every woman he was intimate with in those subsequent years wore shiny gold bikini bottoms in the fevered longings of his mind.
He came and crouched down beside the bath, so that his face was on a level with hers, and she found that she couldn’t look away from the compelling blue blaze of his eyes. ‘God—what a fool I was with you, Shelley. To be so in awe of your innocence that I let it control me!’
She shook her head, but it felt weighted and useless, too heavy for her neck. ‘Nothing controls you, Drew. You’re the one who does the controlling.’
He reached his hand out and trickled a finger down the damp flush of her cheek, feeling the unresisting silk of her skin. ‘Am I really?’ he questioned softly. ‘No, I don’t think so. I let my conscience control me for too long—protecting my innocent bride-to-be, when all the time she couldn’t wait…couldn’t wait for marriage and the man she professed to love. You wanted sex so badly that you were prepared to give yourself to the first man who came along, weren’t you, Shelley?’
She leaned her head back against the bath, too weary to protest, too comfortable to move. ‘I’m too tired to argue with you,’ she sighed. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Oh, yes, it was,’ he contradicted forcefully. ‘You know damned well it was!’
She shook her head. ‘No, Drew. You placed me on an impossible pedestal—which you seemed to glory in smashing from underneath my feet! It was all right for you! You’d lived a little; you’d gone travelling and tasted all that the world had to offer. And then you came home to your virgin bride—how perfect! But you never gave a thought to my needs, or my feelings, did you? You couldn’t resist those women abroad, but you could certainly resist me!’
‘So the way you behaved was my fault—is that what you’re saying, Shelley?’
Suddenly he stood up and moved away and her eyes followed him, missing him, needing him, wishing that she could travel back in time and that everything could be so different.
But it couldn’t. And she wasn’t going to open herself up to m
ore hurt by hankering after a man who had no interest in her other than sexual. Especially a man who had once loved her.
He stood there staring down at her, his face a weave of complex planes and shadows, and she wondered if he was aware of how much she desired him.
Even after all this time.
‘Get out,’ she mumbled, her eyelids feeling as if someone had perched lead weights on them.
He frowned. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I’m convinced that you’re not going to fall asleep. Do you have any idea of how long you’ve been lying there?’
‘Not long enough!’ She struggled to keep her eyes open and finally got around to asking what she should have asked the moment he’d nonchalantly strolled into the bathroom. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘I thought I’d better check you hadn’t drowned.’ He looked into her rosy face, at the dilated pupils of her drowsy eyes. She was looking at him as though she was drowning, he observed thoughtfully, before closing his mind to that wide-eyed appeal.
‘And did you just happen to be passing?’ she asked him sleepily. ‘Or do you go around playing guardian angel to all the female guests? Barging into their bathrooms and leering at them?’
‘No, I make an exception for you, Shelley.’ He laughed softly. ‘I always did. As for leering—that kind of implies that it’s unwanted attention, and I certainly didn’t hear you objecting a minute ago! In fact, I rather got the feeling that you were sorry I stopped.’
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? The phrase may have gone out of fashion—but you obviously haven’t moved with the times since you are the original male chauvinist pig, Drew Glover!’
‘Ah, but pigs can be very lovable animals, Shelley! Now why don’t you let that water out and catch up on some sleep before I buy you dinner?’
She very nearly sat up in indignation, but remembered where she was just in time, and contented herself with a snort instead. ‘You have to be out of your tiny little mind!’
‘Very probably.’
‘You seriously think I want to have dinner with you?’
The Final Seduction Page 6