‘Come closer,’ he said, hoping he wasn’t being too optimistic in thinking he could control the situation.
Just standing close to her like this, inhaling the womanly scents of her body, was amazingly erotic. Images of the hot, steamy sex they could have shared if the circumstances had been different were enough to make him dizzy. And it was becoming increasingly hard to remember exactly who she was and why he was here.
‘I think I should leave now,’ she said abruptly, and Jake wondered if she’d read his mind. ‘Thank you for—for listening to me. And you’re right. I probably overreacted. In his defence, I have to say that Harry’s never done anything to upset me before.’
To hell with Harry! Jake only just stopped himself from saying it out loud. He’d be happy if he never heard the man’s name again.
‘I don’t recall saying you’d overreacted,’ he said instead, his hands balling into fists at his sides. ‘And I don’t know what the bastard said, because you won’t tell me me.’
‘It wasn’t important,’ she insisted, taking a significant step back from him. Jake’s hands rose almost automatically to prevent her from moving away.
‘It was important enough to make you cry,’ he reminded her savagely, and before he could prevent it his hands had settled on the bared skin at her waist.
He didn’t know who was the most shocked—herself or him. He hadn’t intended to touch her; dammit, she’d just spent the last fifteen minutes explaining that she didn’t like to be touched. But as soon as his fingers met skin that was soft and warm and unbelievably smooth, any doubts he’d had about the sanity of what he was about to do went out of the window.
‘Don’t,’ she said, the word torn from her lips, and he thought how pointless the protest was. In her agitation to avoid him her chest was heaving, and the hard peaks of her breasts were clearly visible beneath her tee shirt. She was irresistible, he thought. Irresistible and available. And, abandoning any attempt at playing the hero, he bent his head and covered her lips with his.
She tasted like heaven. That was his first thought. Her mouth was hot and deliciously vulnerable. Her breathing was uneven, short gasps that he inhaled deep into his lungs. She didn’t touch him, even though he must have caught her off balance, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that her breasts were crushed against his chest and her thighs were moving restlessly against his.
It wasn’t the reaction he’d anticipated. He had to admit he’d expected her to fight him all the way. But, apart from feeling a little stiff, she acquiesced to his hungry kiss without obvious resistance. And he came to what he later realised was an arrogant conclusion that it wasn’t being touched that bugged her, it was being touched by the wrong man.
The idea was exhilarating—the possibilities endless. Growing bolder, he slipped his tongue between her teeth and deepened the kiss. But his head swam with sudden dizziness as he explored her mouth, and he realised at once how weak he still was. He was swaying on his feet now, and he thanked God she hadn’t tried to fight him off. If she had, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.
His humiliation came swiftly and devastatingly. When he thought about it later he knew he should have guessed that nothing was ever that easy. Eve hadn’t been acquiescent; she’d just been biding her time. The moment he showed his vulnerability, she was ready to strike.
He was shaking, his legs trembling with the effort of supporting his weight. He lifted his head, blinking in an effort to focus his swimming senses, and Eve immediately tried to take her revenge.
And she would have succeeded, too, if he hadn’t chosen that moment to drag himself away from her. Bending forward, he was struggling to get his breath at the same moment that she brought her knee up between his legs. As it was, the crippling blow merely brushed its objective, but it was enough to send him staggering back against the desk.
He groaned, he remembered later, more because of his heaving lungs than her success. Nevertheless, she seemed to think she’d achieved what she’d wanted, and, snatching up her coat, she wrenched open the door and ran out of the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LIGHT filtering through a crack in the curtains got Eve out of bed. Dear God, she wondered, what time was it? It was usually still dark when she woke up.
Fumbling for her watch, she stumbled across to the windows and drew the curtain aside. Brilliant sunlight spilled into the room and a glance at her watch showed her that it was almost ten o’clock.
Ten o’clock! She was horrified. She’d overslept. Or rather, she hadn’t. Remembering that she hadn’t fallen asleep until well into the early hours, it was no wonder that she’d slept in.
Still, that didn’t alter the fact that this was a working day—and, bearing in mind that Falconbridge Primary was due to close, she was hardly doing herself any favours by missing lessons. What kind of a report was that to put in her reference?
Downstairs, after a swift shower, Eve told the startled housekeeper that she wouldn’t have time for breakfast. ‘Oh, but Mr Romero said to let you sleep on,’ Mrs Blackwood protested, and Eve felt an uneasy pang. What else had ‘Mr Romero’ told her? she wondered. And, in God’s name, how was she supposed to face him after what had happened the night before?
‘Where—where is Mr Romero?’ she asked faintly, hoping she wouldn’t have to see him before she left for school. Maybe almost twenty-four hours would be enough to blunt the memory of what she’d done.
What she’d done?
‘Er—don’t you know?’ Mrs Blackwood was speaking again, and Eve tried to concentrate. ‘I thought you must have said your goodbyes last evening. He left—’ she glanced at the kitchen clock ‘—it must have been about half-past eight.’
‘He left?’ Eve was confused. ‘What—you mean he’s gone out?’
‘He’s gone back to London,’ Mrs Blackwood informed her regretfully. ‘I said I didn’t think he was well enough to drive all that way, but he insisted he had to go. He must have had a call or something. On his mobile phone, you know. Maybe it was from Miss Cassie. Whatever—it was none of my business.’
‘No.’ Eve felt a sudden wave of depression sweep over her. ‘Well, I’d better go and tell Ellie he’s gone.’
‘Oh, she knows,’ said Mrs Blackwood airily. ‘Mr Romero had a word with her before he left.’ She pulled a face. ‘Madam didn’t approve, any more than I did, but what could she do? He was determined to go.’
Eve’s shoulders sagged. ‘I see.’
‘Are you all right?’ The housekeeper was looking at her anxiously now. ‘You’re very pale. Are you sure you’re not coming down with the same complaint Mr Romero had?’
‘You mean flu?’ Eve could hear the irony in her voice. ‘No, I’m all right. Just tired, that’s all.’
‘Well, you look after yourself,’ advised Mrs Blackwood severely. ‘And going without breakfast is a silly thing to do in the circumstances.’
‘I’ll get a coffee at school,’ Eve assured her, hoping she wouldn’t be too late for morning break. ‘See you later.’
Despite the sunshine, it was still cold, and Eve walked briskly down the drive. She could have used her grandmother’s Wolseley, but the old car was so cumbersome to handle that she usually preferred to walk. Besides, her mind was busy with other things, and she wouldn’t have trusted herself behind the wheel of such a lethal weapon.
Depressingly, it didn’t help to know that by leaving Romero had removed any embarrassment she might have felt at seeing him again. Despite what she’d thought earlier, deep inside she’d wanted to speak to him, to assure herself that she hadn’t caused him any permanent damage by her reckless actions. Silly, perhaps, after the way he’d behaved, but she feared her punishment had been out of all proportion to his offence.
She caught her breath suddenly. Yet how could she feel that way? Compared to Jake Romero’s, Harry’s behaviour seemed almost innocent—his desire to prove his love for her the complete opposite of the other man’s intentions.
So why did she care if
she’d hurt him? If she’d really been revolted when Jake touched her, it shouldn’t matter that she was never going to see him again.
But, unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple. In her heart of hearts she knew that for the first time in her life she’d felt feelings stir inside her that she’d hardly known existed. And the truth was, if he hadn’t shown how weak he was, how easy it would be for her to hurt him, she actually might have given in.
But to what? After all these years of keeping men at arm’s length, did she really know? Oh, she knew about sex, about what a man wanted and how far he was prepared to go to get it, but even she could see that what had happened the night before had been nothing like that.
She really knew nothing about consensual sex, about consensual relationships—the kind Cassie had with her many conquests, for example. The kind she’d had—was still having—with Jake Romero.
Eve shivered. If nothing else, that should convince her that she’d made the right decision. Whatever Romero had wanted, it was not something she could supply, and she ought to be glad that he’d left before she did something she’d regret.
All the same, that didn’t stop her from thinking about him during the endless day that followed.
Mrs Portman was unexpectedly understanding when Eve explained, truthfully, that she’d slept badly and that that was why she was late. But Eve could have wished that she’d ranted and raved and given her something else to worry about instead of what might have been.
The memory of how she’d felt when Jake kissed her followed her into her sleep for that night and many nights to come. And no matter how rational she could be in daylight hours, her subconscious persisted in relieving the sensuous brush of his aroused body against hers and the consuming hunger of his mouth.
Jake went home for Christmas. Alone.
Since his return to London at the end of November he’d succeeded in avoiding any intimate meetings with Cassandra. And, although she expressed her irritation in frequent phone calls, usually late at night after she’d finished at the television studios, thankfully the producers of the tri-weekly soap were pleased with her, and that had mollified her complaints.
For his part, Jake had no sensible explanation for his sudden aversion to her company. Oh, sure, he hadn’t liked the way she treated her mother, but he’d never before considered familial loyalties a prerequisite in a girlfriend. His abortive first marriage had taught him that families could be both a blessing and a curse, and since then he’d avoided all attempts to introduce that kind of complication to a relationship.
So why had he agreed to go to Northumberland with Cassandra? A less cynical observer than himself might contend that the visit had been preordained, that it was the only way he could have met Eve, but he wasn’t prepared to accept that theory. For God’s sake, the girl had hated him on sight, and after the way she’d reacted to his lovemaking there was no earthly reason why he should want to see her again.
But he did.
Which was one of the reasons why he went back to San Felipe for Christmas. Not the main reason, he assured himself. That had to do with still feeling hungover from his dose of flu and needing some well-deserved sunshine after too many weeks spent in Europe in winter.
Even so, he hadn’t intended to go. The British Boat Show was held at the beginning of January, and it would have been far more sensible to wait until it was over before returning home. As it was, he condemned himself to two long-haul flights in less than two weeks, and aroused Cassandra’s fury for not thinking about her at all.
Not that her feelings had been high on his agenda of things to consider when he’d been planning his trip. On the contrary, his thoughts had been filled with images of another young woman, spending the holiday season in a cold and inhospitable climate with only two elderly women for company.
And Harry Murray, he reminded himself savagely. After the way he’d behaved, she’d probably revised her opinion of the sainted vicar of St Mary’s.
He arrived back from his short holiday to find a handful of messages from Cassandra waiting for him at his hotel. Evidently she’d been calling him for the past three days. He stuffed the slips the receptionist gave him into his pocket, deciding he’d read them when he wasn’t depressed and jet-lagged. Right now, all he wanted was a shower, a stiff drink and his bed, in that order, and anything Cassandra had to say could surely wait until the following morning.
Despite the fact that it was only the middle of the morning, Jake took a shower, drew his curtains, poured himself a half-tumbler of Scotch from the bottle the Room Service waiter had left on the table, and tumbled into bed.
He fell asleep immediately for once, and he wasn’t best pleased when less than an hour later the phone beside his bed shrilled its strident tone.
‘Dammit!’ he muttered, trying to reach the receiver without lifting his head from the pillow. But all he succeeded in doing was knocking it to the floor, and, swearing again, he hauled himself up and down. ‘Yeah?’ he said, when he got the handset to his ear. ‘This had better be good.’
‘Jake? Darling? Is that you?’
Cassandra! Jake scowled and flung himself back on his pillows. He might have known. He should have told the receptionist to hold all calls until the following day. As it was, short of lying to her, he could hardly deny he was there.
‘Cassandra,’ he said, hoping she would hear the censure in his voice. ‘I was going to ring you later.’ Liar! ‘When I got up.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed nonplussed for a moment. ‘You’re in bed? But it’s eleven-thirty in the morning.’
‘It’s only five-thirty in San Felipe,’ he said, holding onto his temper with an effort. ‘I just got back.’
‘Oh, yes. I know. The receptionist at the hotel told me you were expected back today.’
‘Really?’ Jake would have a word with the receptionist concerned when he had the chance.
‘Yes, really.’ Cassandra didn’t seem to notice the edge in his tone. ‘I suppose she felt sorry for me. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. I thought you said you’d be back on the second?’
‘It’s only the fifth,’ said Jake tersely. ‘I got a later flight.’
‘Yes.’ Cassandra hesitated a moment. ‘So—you’re in bed at this minute?’
‘I think I just said so.’
‘Well, would you like me to come round, then? I could give you a massage. Did I tell you? One of the girls in the soap is really into shiatsu, and she’s been teaching me all the moves. She says I have great potential—’
‘Cassandra.’ Jake interrupted her. ‘Why did you ring? I can’t believe you woke me up to tell me how good you are at some freakin’ Japanese massage crap! For God’s sake, you left enough messages. I thought there must have been a minor disaster, or something. Instead of which—’
‘Mummy’s had a stroke,’ Cassandra broke in before he could finish, and suddenly every nerve in Jake’s body was on high alert. ‘It happened on Christmas Eve—can you believe it? I would have told you sooner, but you were away and your mobile was switched off.’
Deliberately, thought Jake grimly. But he was stunned at the news. He could hardly believe that the feisty old lady had suffered a serious attack. She’d seemed so tough, so indomitable. And Eve…How must Eve be feeling? He’d sensed she had real affection for her employer.
‘How is she?’ he demanded, fully awake now, swinging his bare feet to the floor. ‘I assume you’ve seen her?’
There was silence for a long moment, and Jake was on the verge of telling her to get a move on when she said, ‘Actually, I haven’t.’
‘You haven’t seen her?’
‘No,’ said Cassandra hurriedly. ‘I would have made the trip, you know I would, but she’ll be all right. It’s not left her paralysed or anything. Eve said she had a bit of, you know, numbness to begin with, but that soon wore off. And it hasn’t stopped her from talking—’
Jake blew out a breath. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t been to see her,’ he said
, aghast. ‘Dammit, Cassandra, strokes can be fatal.’
‘I know that.’ She was defensive now.
‘And you didn’t think you had a duty to go and see how she was for yourself?’ Jake was appalled. ‘Cassandra, people need their family around them at a time like this.’
‘I know.’ Cassandra was sulky. ‘But she’s got Eve, hasn’t she?’
‘Eve!’ Jake snorted. ‘Yeah, that’s another story. You didn’t think she might appreciate a bit of support, too?’
‘Eve doesn’t need my support.’
‘You mean she’s never been offered it.’
Cassandra gasped. ‘What do you mean by that? What’s she been telling you?’
‘Eve hasn’t told me anything,’ retorted Jake shortly, aware that he had his own faults where Eve was concerned. ‘I just think it’s a lot to expect of a girl barely out of her teens. Particularly someone whose relationship to your mother is tenuous, to say the least.’
‘Oh!’ Was that relief in Cassandra’s voice? ‘Well, you could be right.’ She paused. ‘But she’s not as young as you think, you know. She’s twenty-five.’
‘She’s still a girl,’ said Jake flatly. Then, deciding he was in danger of arousing her suspicions again, he said, ‘Is Mrs Robertson in Newcastle Hospital?’
‘Oh, she’s not in hospital,’ exclaimed Cassandra at once, as if that somehow exonerated her of much of the blame. ‘She’s at home.’
‘At Watersmeet?’
‘Where else?’
‘So who’s looking after her?’
Cassandra expelled a resentful sigh. ‘Well—Eve and Mrs Blackwood, I expect. Eve has been on holiday since it happened.’
‘From school, you mean?’
‘Of course. You didn’t think she’d gone dashing off to some exotic destination as you did?’
‘I went home,’ Jake reminded her. ‘And why shouldn’t Eve go on holiday if she wants to? She’s entitled to a break, just like anybody else.’
‘Not when Mummy’s ill,’ protested Cassandra brusquely, and then seemed to realise she’d condemned herself out of her own mouth. ‘Oh—well, she wouldn’t anyway. Eve doesn’t do things like that.’
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