Bittersweet Passion

by Lynne Graham

  ‘Home as in Ranbury?’ he drawled. ‘The Hall’s sold—remember? And I don’t know why you’re thinking about home. After all, we’re off island hopping on the yacht next week.’

  At the reminder she smiled. Dane hadn’t thrown Max in her teeth again, so she hadn’t had to tell any lies. But it had gradually sunk in on her that naturally he would hope that Max was waiting in the wings. He wouldn’t want to think he’d done irreparable damage to her life. Much as she was enjoying herself, she had to face that Dane was being so attentive and charming simply because he was settling debts of conscience.

  He did feel guilty. Not that he showed it now, but she had seen enough guilt in his eyes that day she’d been ill to be aware that that had to be influencing his treatment of her. Still, there was no harm in her staying on here as long as Dane seemed content. The moment he revealed a sign of being restless or bored, then she would know that the time had come for her to be practical and tactfully mention going back to England again. There she would look for a job although she did at least have some of the allowance Dane had made her, to fall back on in case of emergency. She would let Dane believe Max was still in the picture, otherwise he would worry about her. In that way it would all be terribly civilised. She would just melt back out of his life again.

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘Admiring the scenery,’ she assured him, hurriedly vacating the jeep before he could help her out. In her embarrassment she caught the hardening of his jawline and coloured miserably, knowing what he had to be thinking and cursing her own overt physical awareness of him.

  Inside the cool, shady restaurant she went straight into the ladies’ and ran cold water over her damp hands. It was so much easier for Dane to forget. He had had so many women in his bed. She had only had him, and for her the memories were slower to fade. Slipping back into the undemanding camaraderie of before their marriage was tougher for Claire. Dane had been her first lover. She had only to look at him to remember and simultaneously shrivel with a mixture of anger and shame that she could still be so sensitised to him. Dane was across the room reading a map when she took a seat and ordered. Nearby, several youthful female tourists were subjecting him to a flagrantly sexual appraisal. Everywhere Dane went he attracted avid female attention. In the tight-fitting white canvas jeans and electric-blue T-shirt, his luxuriant hair streaked even lighter by the hot sunlight, he was breathtaking. He had a stunning physical aura that turned heads and it exasperated her.

  ‘Haven’t you been served yet?’ Dane slid fluidly down opposite, and a waitress was over with the speed of a landslide, delivering their chilled drinks. ‘We ought to take a trip into the rain forest, although I don’t know if roughing it would be quite your thing.’

  All vibrancy and mockery, he leant back in his chair, sapphire-blue eyes fixed intently to her. ‘We’d probably have to share a tent in case some nasty creepy crawly bug attacked you,’ he murmured wickedly.

  Her smile was strained. ‘I don’t think it would be quite me,’ she replied quickly, certain he was trying to encourage her to laugh about what had happened between them and thus finally clear away the lingering constraint upon her side. Oh, not on his, most definitely not on his! Not if she turned cartwheels and limbo danced was Dane ever likely to look at her again as he had in London. The wonder was that he ever had.

  ‘And if it was a choice between me and a tarantula, you’d go for the bug, right?’ He laughed irrepressibly and she could have kicked him. She was blushing and she wished he’d stop staring in that penetrating fashion as if he was willing her to be all jolly hockeysticks about the recent past. Did pigs fly?

  ‘I take it you and Max don’t flirt.’

  He hadn’t mentioned Max in three solid weeks. Why now? Come to think of it, she was surprised he hadn’t demanded to know more about him. ‘I don’t know how to flirt.’ She just evaded the question.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing now with those big green eyes?’ he challenged provocatively and then he groaned, a flicker of clear annoyance in his level gaze. ‘You’re terrific company, you know, but you’re always putting yourself down. You’ve got very few irritating habits.’

  It amused her that he was letting her know she had some. Automatically she grinned. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘You never fuss about the weather or your clothes or the food or when I’m late. In fact, you never complain about anything.’ A dark-winged brow climbed. ‘That bugs me sometimes. You ought to be more assertive.’

  ‘Yes, then we could argue about where we go and what we do when we get there. You’d just love that,’ she teased.

  A flashing smile slanted his cynical mouth. ‘I’m pretty selfish, aren’t I?’ he agreed without remorse. ‘That comes from never having had anyone else to consider. Now I’ve got you.’

  He looked up and smiled again and her heartbeat went haywire behind her ribs. ‘I suggest,’ he declared mockingly, ‘we head home and go down to the beach. Maybe you’d like to take a vote on that …’

  Two hours later Claire was duly arranged on her towel under the parasol Dane had insisted on bringing down. Always self-conscious in Dane’s vicinity when she was in a bikini, she lay on her stomach. All the shapely Amazonians he had ever featured with in newsprint had been bountifully blessed with curves. Her own were of the modest variety. She was reaching for her sun lotion when Dane’s long fingers got in ahead of her.

  ‘I’ll do it. Lie there.’ He advised lazily.

  The cool, firm massage of his skilful fingers on the heated flesh of her back paralysed her. When he carelessly snapped free her bra, she trembled, her skin dampening all over as his hands roamed perilously close to the soft underside of her breasts. Her nipples tightened urgently in response, a bone-melting liquidity surging through her lower stomach in an aching, agonising flood of arousal, and suddenly she couldn’t stand her own weakness any longer. She was too terrified he would guess exactly what was wrong with her. Rolling over, awkwardly clutching her bra to her breasts, she breathed, ‘I’m too hot. I think I’ll go in for a while.’

  ‘I wasn’t about to jump on you, Claire.’ Shocked, she clashed with the cold, angry glitter of his bright eyes. As she straightened, the brilliantly colourful beach backdrop revolved dizzily round her, perspiration breaking out on her brow as she swayed in surprise.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Anger forgotten, Dane sprang upright to steady her. ‘We’ve had a pretty busy day and I keep on forgetting you’re not used to this heat yet.’

  The dizziness receded again and she assumed she had got up too fast, for the heat hadn’t been bothering her. The concerned note in his voice was a relief. The awkward moment had passed over. Her only consolation was that Dane obviously believed her physical aversion to him was based on nerves and embarrassment alone. He couldn’t know that heated and quite shameless longings swept her whenever he got too close. He would find that information much more disturbing when he was endeavouring to make her forget that he had ever made love to her.

  Restoring their relationship to an easy friendship seemed very important to him and, every time she leapt away from him, she reminded him of something he’d sooner forget—that he had ever been crazy enough to take her to bed.

  It racked her with guilt that she hadn’t yet managed to subdue her traitorous body, and it was mortifying to be so easily aroused by a male treating her like a sister. She would just have to try a little harder, she told herself crossly.

  Before he left her at the foot of the stairs, he drawled, ‘I reckon we could do with some company. I’ll bring some friends back on my next trip here, OK?’

  Concealing her dismay, she forced a smile. So it had come. The sign that Dane was tired of her undiluted company, despite all his flattering remarks. Well, it was silly to take it personally. They were only honeymooners to the outside world, and Dane probably couldn’t have kept the charade up so long had he not had his absences in Jamaica to keep him going. God only knew what he was discreetly getting up to while he
was there. Well, she knew, didn’t she? Her tummy felt unpleasantly queasy. He had to be involved with somebody by now. Sex might just be fun to Dane but she had never imagined he didn’t indulge frequently. He wasn’t the celibate type, and the way women chased him he didn’t have to be. She squashed the resultant nasty imagery flat. It was none of her business now.

  He left for Jamaica again before dinner and he didn’t appear for four days. Claire had just climbed out of the antiquated bath when she heard his voice in her bedroom next door. Hastily pulling on a towelling wrap she went through.

  At the sight of her wet hair and bare feet, he smiled. ‘I thought you were resting.’

  Momentarily entrapped by the sheer brilliance of his smile, she hesitated. ‘You’re early,’ she said uncomfortably and, removing her eyes from him, turned away to sit down at the dressing-table. ‘Are your friends with you? You never told me who they were.’

  ‘No, I didn’t, did I? But you didn’t ask.’ The sarcastic edge quivered through her nerve-endings. It still crept out now and again despite his admirable determination to be consistently pleasant. ‘Grant Kirby and his daughter, Mei Ling. He’s a hotelier with a stake in the Jamaican development. She’s a model, half-Chinese like his ex-wife. Wear something partyish. She always looks stunning.’

  Her cheeks flamed with colour. ‘They’re downstairs, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was suddenly behind her, removing the comb from her nerveless fingers to tug it with depressing deftness through the tangle of her wet hair. ‘Why are you trembling?’ he asked conversationally. ‘Didn’t I tell you that you were safe? Or is it just the sight of me in your bedroom that’s making you so nervous?’

  His eyes had strung a jewel-bright trap for her in the mirror. ‘It’s your imagination,’ she fended, dry mouthed. Dear heaven, he was close enough to touch, even the sunwarmed, healthy scent of his lean, virile body was assailing her nostrils, and there was no refuge from the surge of hunger consuming her.

  His hands rested briefly on her shoulders as he bent over her to set down the silver comb again, and she jerked as if he had prodded her with an electric probe. The atmosphere was so thick she could practically taste it. ‘If you want me, Claire, you only have to tell me,’ he said, so low she was barely even sure she had caught the words. And then, in that second between believing and acting, Dane broke the spell with a soft, cynical laugh. ‘I shouldn’t tease you, should I? I’ll see you downstairs.’

  Forty minutes later Claire anxiously surveyed herself. The tawny-gold gown she had chosen was gorgeous, its beauty in the gossamer fragility of the fabric that moulded to her breasts and then skimmed in fine natural pleats down to her toes, leaving her shoulders bare. If you want me, tell me. If she did, what would he do? Bitterness knotted inside her that he could joke about such a thing. But sex was casual to Dane. As casual and impermanent a pleasure as a good meal. He hadn’t been able to understand why she had got so upset in London. His mocking gibe had hurt and humiliated. There was nothing funny about the situation.

  One glance at Mei Ling gave her the sort of sinking sensation she would have had on quicksand. She was tall and slender, a Cleopatra fall of ebony hair framing her exotic features and a scrap of red silk adorning her high breasts, and Claire recognised her instantly as last month’s Vogue cover.

  ‘Ah, so we have a hostess!’ The grey-haired man helping himself to a drink at the bar shone her a smile. ‘What’s your poison?’

  ‘Guava juice,’ she confided with a grin. ‘There should be a few bottles under the bar. I’m Claire, I’m Dane’s …’

  ‘We’re both sophisticated people, honey,’ Mei Ling inserted languidly and, draping her flowing wraparound skirt about her, she reclined back on a couch with a sultry, patronising smile. ‘Dane always has a lady in the picture. Grant, make mine a rum punch. My head’s still not together after that nasty, bumpy little plane we flew in on. God, when will they build a jet-strip here?’

  ‘You’ve been to Dominica before?’ Claire walked across to clasp the glass that Grant was extending, dismayed that Dane had not even told these friends of his that she was his wife.

  ‘Once before.’

  Instead of handing her the drink, the older man planted an arm round her, his hand wandering down over the curve of her hip. ‘Say, you’re kind of cute for Dane’s tastes.’ He gave her a playful slap on the derrière.

  ‘Handling my wife knocks you right off my visiting list,’ Dane drawled as he joined them.

  ‘Your wife?’ Mei Ling echoed, thunderstruck. ‘When did you get married?’

  A little flushed, Claire clutched the drink Dane had retrieved for her. ‘A month ago.’

  The model eyed her up and down intently as if seeking a hidden vein of uranium that might clarify the mystery.

  ‘Must have been when we were in Argentina, honey.’ Grant strolled forward, his heavy face faintly mottled with colour. ‘It must’ve been sudden, too.’

  ‘Not really. Claire’s known me for years.’

  Mei Ling tinkled with laughter. ‘Oh, do tell all!’ she encouraged in a throaty purr.

  ‘Dane and I do have business to discuss,’ Grant interceded. ‘Why don’t you girls talk about your clothes and your latest social triumphs, and let us get on with talking boring shop?’

  His daughter pouted and swung her feet down off the couch, clearly expecting Claire to join her. The time before dinner vanished on a tide of desultory and trivial chatter because it was glaringly obvious Mei Ling had not the smallest interest in anyone beyond Dane, her slanted dark eyes following his every movement round the room.

  ‘I’m surprised you let him wander about Jamaica alone,’ she hazarded on the way into dinner. ‘But Dane would do just what he wanted to do, wouldn’t he?’ she concluded with great condescension.

  ‘Would he?’ Claire opened limpid eyes, an extraordinarily strong urge to scratch winging through her.

  Mei Ling just ignored her. ‘He’s the best looking male I’ve ever seen, and he’s just loaded with sex appeal,’ she commented with rich appreciation.

  ‘Speaking personally, of course, I always preferred his IQ.’

  Mei Ling drew incredulous eyes back to her.

  Determinedly Claire smiled. ‘His looks are just the icing on the cake.’

  The most horrible suspicion was blossoming within her now. Was Mei Ling Dane’s current bed-partner? The girl seemed so incredibly confident, despite Claire’s presence. Why should Dane feel obligated to remain celibate when they both knew their marriage was just a piece of paper? His bedroom was in the other wing of the house and yes, in Claire’s opinion, he was perfectly capable of carrying off such a ménage à trois. The suspicion shook her to the very depths. Dane had invited the Kirbys here to stay and then to join them on the yacht. Was Dane quietly letting her know that he wasn’t waiting indefinitely to take up his usual way of life?

  ‘Knock down a few walls here and there, and it’s going to be one fabulous place,’ Grant was saying enthusiastically over the creole lobster. ‘Then when you clear some of those trees off the acreage you own and put in pools, maybe a couples-only complex above the beach … what do you think?’

  ‘Ghastly!’ The admission leapt off Claire’s tongue and she bit her lip. ‘Oh, not your ideas, Grant, but this is such a lovely old house. I’m sentimental. I hate to think of it becoming a hotel and losing its character. Jacuzzis in the en suites and all that.’

  Dane lifted a sable brow at her sudden loquacity. ‘I was planning on retaining the character. This place is a potential goldmine.’

  ‘You don’t need it,’ she said helplessly.

  ‘Meaning?’ he persisted calmly.

  Grant was shaking his head ruefully, man-to-man-over-little-woman’s-idiocy fashion. ‘You’re not into business, are you?’

  ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted.’ Recollecting her exact position in Dane’s life, she didn’t know what had got into her to speak her mind suddenly on what was frankly none of her busine
ss.

  Grant was bent on re-educating her. ‘It will cost a mint to put this place in order. Stands to reason it has to be a paying proposition. You could always hang on to a private suite here for your own use,’ he pointed out. ‘Though why you should want to before this island develops some nightspots, I don’t know. There isn’t a top hotel here yet. It’s crying out for development.’

  Claire nodded peaceably, feeling Dane’s penetrating gaze resting on her profile and wishing she had kept quiet. Money, money, money. His world revolved on multi-million dollar deals and this house was just another moneyspinner to him.

  After dinner Mei Ling hugged Dane’s side and hung on his every word in the most sickeningly sycophantic style. Grant expounded at length on his vision of Dominica in another decade. It was depressing. When Claire looked up she registered that Dane and Mei Ling had stepped out on to the terrace where they were no longer within view. Obeying an impulse of stark fear, she said, ‘Excuse me, Grant. It’s getting cool. I’ll just go and get a shawl.’

  She went out through the dining-room where the table was being cleared. Her stiletto heels clicked on the wooden floor of the terrace and stirred the couple in the shadows. Inside again, she leant back up against the wall, a trickle of sweat running down between her breasts, a punched-in-the-stomach sensation bowing her head. The agony of sick jealousy was a canker clawing at her.

  Kissing her right where he could be seen! Bastard! Her stomach somersaulted and heaved. As if someone had ripped a veil from her eyes she saw inside her own anguish. When had it happened? When had she fallen in love with Dane? Or had it always been there, merely lying dormant because she had never dreamt that Dane could ever be more than a fantasy to her? Still in shock, she forced herself off the wall, away from the servants’ curious dark eyes and upstairs to collect a shawl. Had she been seen? It could easily have been one of the servants.