As they drew up outside her ground-floor flat, fumbling in her bag for her key, she said quickly, ‘Don’t bother to get out.’
Ignoring her injunction, Rafe asked the driver to wait and accompanied her across the pavement. In the amber glow from the street lamp he unlocked the door and handed her back the key.
‘Thank you.’ Dropping it into her bag, she slipped inside and turned to face him.
He was standing so close that she could feel the warmth of his body and his breath stirring her hair.
She glanced up.
His mouth was only inches away. Just the thought of it touching hers again sent shivers down her spine and brought her out in goose-pimples.
She backed a step. ‘And thank you for a very nice evening. I’ve had a lovely time.’
‘I’m pleased you’ve enjoyed it.’ Then, as though it was all settled, ‘I thought we’d go to Annabel’s tomorrow evening…’
She hesitated, knowing full well she should stop this thing in its tracks but wanting desperately to see him again.
Looking into her face, seeing her waver, he added firmly, ‘I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’
Though common sense told her she was being a fool, she agreed, ‘All right.’
When he lifted a quizzical brow at her lack of enthusiasm, her voice unsteady, she added, ‘I’ll look forward to it…Well, goodnight.’
He tilted his head to one side, a gesture she was coming to know. ‘Rafe?’
‘Rafe,’ she echoed obediently. It was the first time she had used his name.
‘Goodnight, Madeleine. Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight,’ she said again.
He didn’t turn away as she had expected. Instead he stood quite motionless, watching her.
She knew she should step back and close the door, but, fascinated by the unnerving stillness that generated so much sexual tension, she was still rooted to the spot when he bent and kissed her.
This time his mouth was not only sweet, but also familiar. His arms went around her, and he drew her close. His kiss was firm and masterful and when he sought to deepen it her lips parted as though there was no help for it.
The last obstacle removed, his mouth began to move against hers in a sizzling kiss that melted her last defences as easily as a blowtorch melted butter.
He tasted like ambrosia. Her stomach clenched and her heart began to race wildly, while desire dried her throat and ran like red-hot lava through her bloodstream.
She was no longer capable of thinking straight when, a few seconds later, he freed her mouth and, his voice husky, murmured, ‘You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to feel your naked body against mine, to make love to you…’
Looking up into his shadowy face, she knew she ought to send him away. But she couldn’t.
‘Is that what you want?’ he murmured.
She nodded silently and, her breathing shallow and ragged, waited impatiently while he went to pay off the taxi.
He came back and, taking her chin in his hand, lifted her face and began to kiss her again, kisses sweeter than wine, as he eased them inside and closed the door.
In the gloom, he continued to kiss her while he removed the clasp that held her hair. She heard his little murmur of satisfaction as the silky mass tumbled around her shoulders and he ran his fingers through it.
Then his hands slipped to the warmth of her nape and began to travel over her, tracing her shoulders, her ribcage, her slender waist, the flare of her hips and the curve of her firm buttocks.
‘I’ve never met a women I wanted so much,’ he murmured against her lips.
His touch was all she had ever hoped for or needed, and above his softly spoken words she could hear his heart beating. Or was it her own?
Caught up in a whirl of sensual delight, on a flight to the stars, she was hearing things, tasting things, feeling things that she had never heard or tasted or felt before.
While he continued to kiss her he unbuttoned her blouse and, unhooking the fastening of her bra, slipped one hand inside. Her breast fitted neatly into his palm. Enjoying the warm weight of it, he brushed his thumb over the velvety nipple and felt it firm beneath his touch. Shudders of pleasure running through her, she gasped deep in her throat. Hearing that muffled sound and interpreting it correctly, he bent his head to take the other nipple in his mouth and suckle until her whole body was on fire with longing.
When she could stand no more she pushed him away and, taking his hand, urged him towards the bedroom.
As the door closed behind them, the small voice of reason warned her that she was acting completely out of character. Acting like a fool.
But, having jumped into the deep end, she was in over her head and unwilling to be saved. Brushing reason aside, she moved to close the slatted window blind and shut out the night.
Turning to him, she saw the gleam of his eyes in the semi-darkness before he switched on the bedside lamp, flooding that part of the room in amber light.
On the dressing table close by was a framed snapshot of a smiling, fair-haired man.
Reaching out, Rafe picked it up and, his voice a little wary, asked, ‘Is this your husband?’
She answered distractedly, ‘Oh, no, that’s Noel. He’s out in the Middle East. In the oil fields.’
‘An ex-lover?’
‘A friend.’
Rafe replaced the photograph with care, and turned to gaze at her.
She had expected him to skip over the preliminaries and hurry her into bed, but with no suggestion of haste he said softly, ‘I want to look at you. Take off your clothes for me.’
As though under a spell, she began to take off her suit and blouse. But modesty once ingrained was hard to dislodge, and, aware as she was of his appreciative gaze, the lick of flame in his eyes, her cheeks were hot as she stripped off her panties.
When she straightened and stood before him naked, he made a half-smothered sound deep in his throat, a very male sound, and without taking his eyes off her for an instant began to divest himself of his own shoes and clothing.
As she watched him discard his dark silk boxer shorts, it was her turn to smother the gasp that rose in her throat. Too turned on to move, she swallowed hard, her stomach tightening with anticipation.
‘Come here,’ he said.
When she obeyed, he lifted her onto the bed and stretched out beside her. Then, propping himself on one elbow, he leaned over her and, his hand fondling her breast, he said softly, ‘You’re exquisite. The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.’
Colin had been an unexciting lover, with a low sex drive and little skill. Not only had he preferred to make love in the dark, but also he had never told her she was beautiful, nor had he caressed her in that way.
Rather, he had avoided touching her, as though he found the idea of enjoying sex something to be slightly ashamed of.
Rafe obviously had no such inhibitions.
Inhaling the fragrance of her skin, he murmured, ‘You smell as fresh and delightful as apple blossom,’ before his mouth began to roam over her.
She shivered deliciously as his unshaven jaw rasped against the smooth skin of her flat stomach.
When he had kissed and tasted every inch of her golden flesh, his mouth returned to pleasure her breasts while his fingers found the nest of pale, silky curls and began to explore further. Shivering, she gave herself up to the sensations those skilful fingers were engendering.
It wasn’t long, however, before the exquisite torment grew too much to bear and she writhed under the lash of pleasure while desire rode her, digging in its spurs so that she began to make little whimpering sounds deep in her throat.
He paused, then, drawing her back against him, spoon-fashion, he eased her hips towards him before returning his hands to her breasts.
Just at first he was careful, as though gauging her reaction. Then he began to thrust more strongly, building a tension that spiralled and grew until the sensations, almost too great to be bo
rne, peaked, and stars exploded inside her head.
Hearing her little gasping cries with pleasure, he held her there, drawing out the moment, until he too was caught up in the surging excitement.
For a while they lay together quietly while their heart rates and breathing returned to normal. Then he drew away, and, turning her to face him, gathered her close and kissed her tenderly.
Knowing she’d been married, he had been somewhat thrown, partly by her obvious shyness, and partly by her instinctive reaction to their lovemaking. Her obvious pleasure had been followed by what he could have sworn was gratitude. Frowning, he wondered if her husband had been clumsy and lacking skill, or simply uncaring.
Seeing that frown, she asked a shade anxiously, ‘I hope you weren’t disappointed?’
‘Anything but,’ he assured her.
Then, picking up her very real concern, he kissed her and, leaning his forehead against hers, told her with soft emphasis, ‘You’re very special, and I’m immensely flattered that you let me into your bed.’
Feeling her relax, with a little sigh of relief he settled her head on his shoulder. She felt limp as a rag doll. The power and intensity of his lovemaking had left her exhausted, totally drained, yet at the same time full of bliss, brimming with rapture.
Never for a moment had she imagined love could be like this—and yes, it was love—never imagined that this strength of feeling could take root and blossom so quickly. It wasn’t just the result of sexual deprivation, nor was it simply the chemistry between them. This was different. This was more. Much more.
They seemed to meet on every level, physical, mental and emotional. And as she slid into sleep she found herself thinking that if she searched the world over she would never find a man who was more right for her.
The same thought was in her mind when she stirred and surfaced slowly, her body relaxed and satisfied, a quiet happiness singing through her.
She was in love, truly in love, for the very first time. It was a big risk, letting herself fall so hard and so fast for a man she had only just met.
But she couldn’t say she hadn’t known what she was doing. Well aware that she was vulnerable, well aware that she was teetering on the brink of falling for him, well aware that making love with him could easily push her over, she had walked into it with her eyes wide open.
And it had been wonderful beyond words. She had never felt so utterly content. Not even her guilt over Colin could spoil things, or alter the way she felt about Rafe.
Sighing, she stretched out a hand to touch him, but she was alone. Jolted wide awake, she opened her eyes to find he was standing by the bed fully dressed, a cup of tea in his hand.
‘I’m sorry to wake you, but I thought it best if I left early.’
He set the cup on the bedside cabinet and smiled down at her. The blind was still closed, but even in the half-light his thickly lashed green eyes were brilliant, and with his hair a little rumpled, a dark stubble adorning his jaw, he looked irresistibly virile and attractive.
Her heart doing strange things, she pushed herself into a sitting position.
‘What I’d really like to do,’ he went on, ‘is stay and make love to you until such a time as the sight of a strange man leaving your flat wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow…’
Just his words made her go hot all over and sent a surge of desire running through her.
‘But bearing in mind what you said about having a lot to do, I’m restraining the urge…’
Disappointment pricked sharp as a thorn.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’
He stooped and kissed her, a lingering kiss, as if he couldn’t bear to leave her. She was on the verge of begging him to stay when he straightened and strode to the door.
An instant later he was gone.
For a moment or two she felt empty and lost—bereft—as if the whole thing had been nothing but a wonderful dream. But the cup of tea sitting by her elbow was tangible proof, not only that he was no dream, but also that he’d cared enough to think about her. Gladness returning, she reached for the cup and took a sip. Only the day to get through and she would be seeing him again.
Excitement and anticipation buoying her up, the morning passed quite quickly, and even her afternoon visit to the nursing home didn’t seem quite so fraught as usual. For the first time in what seemed an age, happiness was crowding out guilt. Or at least masking it.
By a quarter past seven that evening, showered, dressed and lightly made-up, Madeleine was ready and waiting. Standing by the window, she watched as a silver Porsche drew up by the kerb promptly at seven-thirty, and Rafe jumped out. He looked breathtakingly handsome in well-cut evening clothes, and she wondered if she was underdressed for Annabel’s.
Taking deep breaths to calm herself, she let him ring the bell before picking up her evening purse and going to open the door.
He smiled at her. ‘Ready?’
Madeleine nodded. ‘Will I do?’ she asked a shade anxiously.
His glance swept over her from head to toe.
She was wearing a simple black dress that clung lovingly to her slender curves and set off her flawless, pale gold skin. Her blonde hair was taken up in a gleaming coil that served to emphasise her pure bone structure, and in her neat lobes were small gold hoops.
A light in his eyes, he said, ‘You look stunning,’ and bent his dark head to kiss her.
Her heart leapt in her breast, and she knew he held everything she was, everything she hoped for, in the palm of his hand.
It was a beautiful evening, warm and still, and she could smell roses in the heart of town as she was escorted to the car.
When she was settled, he slid in beside her and started the engine. As they left the square behind them and joined the evening queue of traffic, he queried lightly, ‘Missed me?’
The true answer was yes, but she said primly, ‘I haven’t had time.’
‘So what have you been doing all day?’
‘Nothing very exciting. I spent most of the morning cleaning and shopping.’
‘But you went out in the afternoon? Anywhere nice?’ Flustered by the question, she said, ‘No, not particularly.’
She had meant to sound casual, but it came out as defensive, and she bit her lip.
Intrigued by her tone, he wondered what she was hiding. Deciding not to push it—he’d find out when he knew her better—he changed tack.
‘What made you decide to become a physiotherapist?’
She relaxed, glad to chat about her work. ‘You might call it following in my father’s footsteps. Physiotherapy was his chosen profession, and it was widely acknowledged that he had healing hands. When I was a child he became prominent in his field, and so much in demand that he turned into a workaholic.’
‘So you didn’t see much of him?’ Rafe questioned.
‘No.’ There was a remembered hint of sadness. ‘When he wasn’t at his consulting rooms in Baker Street, he was often in the States giving lecture tours.’
‘Why the States? Any particular reason?’
‘My father’s American by birth. He was brought up and had done his early training in Boston.’
‘So you’re half American? Any relatives over there?’ he asked.
‘Just an aunt and uncle we used to visit. They were always delighted to see us.’ Madeleine smiled as she reminisced.
Rafe asked no further questions, and they lapsed into silence until the Porsche drew up outside the famous basement entrance in Berkeley Square.
When he had helped her out, he handed the keys to the doorman and they made their way down the steps and in through a door at the bottom.
‘Good evening, Mr Lombard. Nice to see you.’ Clearly well-known, Rafe was welcomed inside.
As he signed in he was greeted by a couple who looked inclined to attach themselves, until he said with smooth politeness, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us?’ and led Madeleine away.
When they were out of earshot, he added, ‘Jo and
Tom are very nice, but I wanted you all to myself tonight.’
She flushed with pleasure.
There was a mere handful of people in the bar, even fewer in the restaurant, and the dance floor was empty, its dark mirrors reflecting nothing.
‘It doesn’t get busy until later, so we’ll have plenty of time to dine in comfort and then we can dance later.’
Just the thought of being held in his arms made her temperature rise even more.
When they were settled at a table and had been given menus, he asked, ‘Is there anything in particular you fancy?’
Wanting only to watch his face in the candlelight, she shook her head. ‘You order for me.’
The order given, they were sipping an aperitif when he reached across the table and, taking her slim but strong hand, examined it.
‘You said your father had healing hands. Have you?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said honestly. ‘Nor have I my father’s sheer dedication.’
‘So you’re not a committed career woman?’ He glanced up and met her gaze.
‘Not really. I could be just as happy being a wife and mother.’
‘At the risk of sounding chauvinistic, I find that highly commendable in this materialistic age. Most of the women I’ve met have been career-orientated. Being ‘just’ a wife and mother comes a very poor second to their independence. No wonder so many men feel threatened…’
His white smile flashed suddenly. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want a brainless, compliant woman, no matter how beautiful she was, nor would I want a clinging vine…’
‘What would you want?’ She laughed.
‘An intelligent, independently minded woman who was capable of standing beside me as my equal. Yet a woman who would be willing to put her home and family before her career.’
Had he stayed single because he couldn’t find the right kind of woman? she wondered. Or was that just an excuse so he could go on playing the field?
As though he knew exactly what she was thinking, he added, ‘Someone with all those qualities isn’t easy to find. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t been in a hurry to marry.’
Love Without Lies Page 3