by Liz Fielding
‘Oh? What’s that?’ His voice had lost some of its warmth, the message was getting through.
She kept her eyes on the mixture she was beating. ‘Book me a flight home for Sunday. As early in the day as possible.’ She couldn’t stand the long, empty silence that folllowed this request. ‘I have to deliver the photographs to Island Holidays at the beginning of the week,’ she rushed on. ‘And then I have a job booked in—’
‘Liverpool. You said. You’re not the only one with a retentive memory.’ She turned, pleading silently for him to understand, but his eyes had shut her out. ‘And I imagine that you can’t wait to get home and file your story. It must merit quite a bonus.’
Wrong. The bonus was to have been for something else entirely. ‘I’m not a journalist,’ she said flatly.
‘But your “very special” friend Nigel is.’
I won’t tell him! Never! But the words remained locked in her head, and she was still rooted furiously to the spot when the front door banged shut behind him. It didn’t matter, she told herself. Eventually he would know that she hadn’t betrayed him.
So what? that cruel inner voice taunted her. Last night had meant nothing. He had held her close and kissed her simply because she had been there, to listen while he poured out his grief and guilt; if he had swept her into his bed it might just have been perfect. But he had gone to Poppy instead, and any delay in leaving would simply prolong the agony.
And on Sunday evening Nigel would be coming for his pound of flesh. She was determined to be gone long before then.
Chay returned early in the afternoon and dumped the shopping on the kitchen table, along with the flight confirmation and a courier bag with her films. He curtly declined her offer of a late lunch and departed for the beach with Twany to begin building the barbeque. The fact that he had apparently got the message did little to restore her spirits.
He returned late in the afternoon, took a beer from the fridge and offered her one. She took it gratefully. She normally hated drinking anything from a can, but Chay had simply ripped the ring-pull off his and tipped it up, to drink long and deep, and she followed suit, too hot from a day spent over a cooker to care about such niceties.
‘Have you checked your films?’ he asked, leaning back against the table.
‘They’ll wait until I get home. I’ll need my light-box to choose the best. I suppose you’ve taken out…?’
‘I’ve taken out the personal ones. They’re very good.’
‘Consider them a contribution to your family album,’ she snapped, and his face darkened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, quickly. ‘After what you told me last night… that was tactless.’
‘After last night I thought we were well beyond the point where the word tact would have a place in our relationship.’ He threw the can in the bin. ‘I clearly misread the signals.’ He turned, the muscles in his neck corded with tension. ‘Or did you spend the long night hours dreaming about Nigel? Or perhaps the handsome Cesare?’
‘No!’
‘Then doubtless you’ve had time to do your sums and realise how much your story is worth.’ She was too angry to answer. ‘You’d better go and get ready,’ he said abruptly. ‘We’re due at Gian and Paul’s in half an hour.’
She stiffened. ‘I think I’d prefer to stay here.’
‘Then think again, lady. They’re expecting you.’
She fought back the urge to defy him. He looked fit to drag her there. ‘If you insist.’
‘In this particular case, I’m afraid I do.’
‘Meaning?’ she demanded, and regretted it the moment the word was out of her mouth.
He lunged forward and seized her arm. ‘Meaning, Sophie Nash, that the next time you flash “come to bed” out of those big grey eyes of yours, don’t expect me to act the gentleman if you should change your mind at the last minute.’
‘Gentleman!’ She almost exploded.
‘Good God, do you think it was easy to send you away last night?’ His fingers were biting into her arm as he held her pinned against him. Her breathing was ragged and she was held by a pair of eyes that generated enough electricity to power the national grid. ‘But you are a very unwilling guest in my house, Sophie. Taking you to my bed would have been in the worst possible taste, don’t you think?’
She knew that he was a hair’s breadth from kissing her, and she mustn’t allow that to happen. Ever again. She wrenched herself free. ‘Especially when there’s a more than willing reserve!’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ His dark brows drew together.
‘Oh, don’t be bashful, Chay. When Poppy dropped by she certainly wasn’t—’
‘Poppy was here?’
‘She came to pick up your manuscript.’
‘So. That was—’ He broke off. ‘Did you see her take anything?’
‘No. I didn’t stick around. I don’t find her company that appealing.’
He pushed her through to the study and swung back a large painting to reveal a safe. Her searching had been pointless. She hadn’t even thought of a safe. ‘There!’ He threw the pile of notepads on to the desk.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Poppy, thanks to you, is convinced I have a book just waiting to be published. In fact there are three. A trilogy. But even you didn’t know that. So this morning I had a message from her husband, saying he was interested in leasing a berth at the new marina and could he meet me there. And while I was conveniently out of the way Poppy called, hoping to find a manuscript. But she could hardly expect you to stand by while she ransacked the study. So she made sure you wouldn’t hang around. The only way she was certain would work.’
Poppy was married? ‘She didn’t—’
‘No. She didn’t get anything. No thanks to you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Go and change, Sophie. We’re going to be late as it is.’
In normal circumstances it would have been a delightful evening. Paul and Gian were welcoming; Cesare was on his best behaviour. His light-hearted charm was a million miles away from Chay’s withdrawn, slightly dark mood and when he held out a glass of wine and raised his brows at the vacant chair beside her, Sophie’s smile was welcoming.
He had clearly come to the conclusion that she and Chay had had a row and set out to amuse her, telling her about his job as a pilot with a commercial airline.
‘I come to London sometimes,’ he told her. ‘May I call you?’
She hesitated. He was a pleasant companion, but without the glowering presence of Chay to restrain his ardour… ‘I have some pretty friends,’ she countered. ‘I’m sure they’d love to meet you.’
‘Give me your number quickly, cara…’ he said with a soft laugh.
‘She’s not on the telephone.’ Chay took Sophie’s arm and jerked her to her feet. ‘It’s time to go. Tom’s nearly out on his feet.’
And it was only Tom’s presence in the car that prevented her from telling him exactly what she thought of him. The child curled up in her lap and by the time they were home was fast asleep. Chay took him from her and carried him off to bed, curtly declining any help.
Feeling slightly lost, she gathered up her films and went upstairs, thinking that she might begin to pack. But she didn’t have her suitcase, and by the time she fetched it from upstairs she was too tired to do anything other than fall into bed.
Gian and Paul were the first to arrive with their brood the following afternoon and Paul immediately departed for the beach to help Chay. After that the children arrived thick and fast. Gian looked over their heads. ‘How many did you say there are supposed to be? We’d better keep count in case we lose one or two.’
‘Sixteen from school, your three and Tom. Twenty.’ They had a quick count-up and led them down to the beach.
All the children had made an effort to come as cowboys and cowgirls and even some of the girls had guns. Led by Tom, they fired their caps off furiously, until the sound ricocheted around the cliff and the air
was filled with the sharp scent of the explosive. For ten minutes they were allowed to let off steam in a gunfight that would have done justice to the OK Corral. Then Sophie began to organise games while Chay and Paul started the barbecue.
At about four the men began to cook, while Sophie and Gian took the children into the sea to cool off. It seemed forever before Chay banged on a tin plate with a huge wooden spoon and they could hand them over to be fed. Sophie sank gratefully on to the sand and closed her eyes for a few minutes.
Despite a series of disturbed nights, sleep had eluded her as she had tried to order her thoughts through the long night. It had almost been a relief to get up as the dawn broke to ice Tom’s cake.
Breakfast had been all excitement, with Tom opening his presents, then Chay had taken him down to the stables to get him out from under her feet. There had barely been time for a quick lunch before Gian and Paul had arrived. But at least there hadn’t been time for any awkward silences.
‘I hope you’re not asleep.’ Chay’s voice seemed to come from a long way off, but she lifted a hand in a half-hearted way. She wasn’t asleep, she wanted to say, but it was too much effort. ‘You do know how dangerous it is to fall asleep in the sun?’ he persisted. Why wouldn’t he go away? ‘Sophie?’ She forced one eye open to convince him and was just in time to see the water coming, but far too late to avoid it. It hit her, icy cold, in the stomach, and she came up with a yell. ‘I’m so glad that you’re not asleep.’
He had been in the sea, presumably to cool off after the cooking, and water was running down the broad expanse of his chest, dripping from the tousled mop of dark hair, and somewhere in the ocean depths of his eyes, he was laughing.
Sophie saw a dangerous shade of red that brought her up from the sand in one fluid movement, and she flung herself at him. He stood his ground for a second, as if transfixed, then he turned and ran, urged on by the delighted children.
His long legs quickly out-distanced her but she pounded after him in mindless determination, following him behind a group of rocks that took them out of sight of the party. Then she stopped. He had disappeared. There was a small cave that had been gouged from the cliff-wall by the constant wearing motion of the sea and she stepped towards it.
‘Chay?’ she called uncertainly. Then she shrieked as he grabbed her from behind and pushed her into the cave. ‘Let go of me!’ she demanded as he turned her, caught her with one arm about the waist and held her fast.
‘But you’ve caught me,’ he protested, without much regard for the truth. ‘The question is, Miss Sophie Nash, what are you going to do with me?’
‘Nothing! Let me go, Chay. I’m soaked!’
‘So you are.’ A wicked smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he regarded the T-shirt, thrown over her swimsuit to protect her skin, which now clung wetly to her body, offering no hiding place for embarrassingly prominent nipples that seemed to peak in almost automatic response to his merest touch. Now, inches from his bronzed torso clad only in his tormentingly brief swimsuit, her body almost groaned with longing for him. As if he heard, he tightened his grip, drawing her closer, so that the rough hair on his legs grazed her soft thighs, her tell-tale breasts were pressed against his chest, and her abdomen… She gasped as she realised just what was pressed against her abdomen, the shock bringing some semblance of control to her disordered senses.
‘Chay…the children…’
‘The children are occupied. However, I could be persuaded, for the payment of a small forfeit–a kiss, I believe, is traditional…?’
It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t do this to her. She wanted to be strong, but held like this, pressed against the unyielding strength of his body, escape was the last thing on her mind. And his eyes, more blue than green, as if reflecting the flawless sky, told her that he knew exactly what she wanted. ‘I thought I had captured you…’
‘Possession, Sophie, is nine-tenths of the law,’ he reminded her, and her lips parted on a little breath of excitement, her lids fluttering down as his mouth descended with agonising slowness. His lips touched the delicate hollow of her cheek, sending a delicious tingle rippling through her skin to every part of her body, and for a moment she remained perfectly still, waiting, knowing that this was just a prelude… To nothing. She opened her eyes.
‘You’ve had your forfeit, Sophie. Don’t be greedy.’ He turned her round and gave her a little push. ‘Hadn’t you better go back and give Gian a hand?’
Tom hurtled up to her as she stumbled back along the beach to rejoin the others. ‘Are we going to have the cake now?’ he asked.
‘Not on the beach. You can blow out your candles and cut the cake when everyone comes later to collect your friends. Have you all had enough to eat?’
‘Sure thing!’
Sophie managed a convincing smile at his attempt at a cowboy accent. ‘Well, then, we’d better get on with the sandcastle competition, pardner,’ she said, diverting her eyes firmly away from the spot where Chay was tugging on a pair of shorts.
She organised everyone with spades and set them to work. Gian smiled as she dropped down beside her.
‘Well? Did you give that naughty boy what he deserved?’ she asked.
‘What? Oh, Chay. Sure, I beat him to a pulp,’ she said, imitating Tom.
‘Is that what they’re calling it now?’ Sophie looked up sharply, but it was nothing but the mildest teasing. She sighed. She was the one who felt she had been pulped.
‘That was the most exhausting afternoon I have ever spent.’ Chay closed the door behind the last of their guests. After a spectacular firework display, made especially by Twany for Tom’s birthday, Tom had cut his cake and handed it round to the children while Chay and Sophie had offered something more substantial to their parents.
Now he put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her face. ‘Thank you for today, Sophie. Tom had a great time.’ He smiled. ‘I rather think I did too.’
She had made a point of keeping her distance from him since he had made a fool of her on the beach. Now he was too close, and she was much too vulnerable. ‘Where is Tom?’ she asked rather briskly, moving away.
He dropped his hands and looked around. ‘He was here a minute ago.’ They found him asleep on the sofa in front of the fireplace, his gun still clutched in a grubby hand. Chay stood over him for a moment. ‘I’ll take him up to bed. Why don’t you make us both a drink?’ he said, scooping up the sleeping child.
She poured him a Scotch and herself a glass of wine, then fetched a tray and began to gather up the glasses and plates. She was carrying it through to the kitchen when Chay came down the stairs.
‘Did he wake up?’
‘No. I took off most of his things and tucked him in. I’m afraid he’s rather grubby and he hasn’t brushed his teeth.’
‘I don’t suppose they will drop out overnight. Can you open this door, please? Your drink is in the drawing-room.’
‘I’ll fetch it and come and give you a hand.’
‘There’s no need.’ She was tetchy. He was too masculine, too desirable. She wanted him too much, and since she couldn’t have him, she didn’t want him near her. Not if he was going to tease her, poke fun at the desire he knew tormented her, as he had done on the beach.
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He took the tray from her and put it on the draining-board. ‘This is my house, Sophie, even though you seem to have turned it on its head from the moment you arrived.’
‘You made me stay,’ she reminded him, a stubborn tilt to her chin as she turned on the taps and let hot water run into the sink.
‘Well, you have your flight booked tomorrow. There’s apparently nothing more to keep you.’
‘Great.’ She dumped a pile of plates in the sink and began to wash them, heaping them on the draining-board with a noisy clatter.
Chay began to dry them and stack them neatly. ‘You will take a little more care with the glasses, won’t you?’ he asked, as she reached for a crystal tumbler. She sw
ished it around the suds with restrained violence and set it to drain with excessive care. As she reached for the next he caught her wrist. ‘I couldn’t care less about the glasses, Sophie, but wouldn’t want you to cut yourself.’ Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes and she bit her lip, trying desperately not to let them fall. ‘Sophie?’
She blinked furiously. ‘Yes?’ she croaked, her throat tight, her voice hoarse.
‘What is it?’ He turned her to face him, but she refused to look up. ‘What’s the matter? You’re like a prickly pear this evening.’
‘Green and spiky,’ she hiccuped as she blinked back the tears and faced him. ‘Well, thanks.’
‘Just spiky.’ He brushed the tears away with his thumbs. ‘Is it because I didn’t kiss you this afternoon?’
Damn him! Why did he always see straight through her? Worse, why did he have to say it out loud? It was bad enough that he knew, without him insisting she admit it. ‘You did kiss me.’ She managed a whisper.
‘Not quite the way either of us intended. You must surely have realised—?’
‘Must I? Why don’t you run it by me, Chay?’ she invited. All her desires were apparently hanging out for the world and his wife to see. It would adjust the balance, soothe her pride, if instead of that superior know-it-all smirk just this once he had to admit his own arousal. ‘Tell me how it was for you.’
His face was gratifyingly grave. ‘For me, Sophie? It was like this. If I had kissed you, I don’t believe anything could ever have stopped me until I had tasted every last part of you. And then made love to you until we were both exhausted.’
‘Oh!’ The sound came in a little rush of breath. Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been that.
‘Not quite the time or place, was it? Now, shall we finish washing the glasses? Or had you something else in mind?’
‘Oh, er, yes…the glasses.’ She turned back to the sink and stared at the crystal. ‘At least… I’m sorry. I don’t think I can,’ she said, as her legs began to tremble.
‘You did ask,’ he reminded her, and then with a muffled oath he swept her into his arms and carried her into the drawing-room, to the sofa set four-square before the fireplace. ‘This is ridiculous, Sophie,’ he murmured into her hair.