Love Without Lies

by Lee Wilkinson

  The tension suddenly tightening like a hempen noose around her throat, she gazed up at him with wide, greeny-blue eyes. ‘That’s why I inveigled you here.’

  That answered the first of her questions, but not the second.

  ‘I can’t imagine what you hope to gain,’ she burst out agitatedly.

  ‘Can’t you?’

  Watching her bite her lip, he glanced in the direction of the thick sheepskin rug. ‘Shall we move in front of the fire and—?’

  Flinching away, she cried hoarsely, ‘No!’

  He raised a dark, mocking brow. ‘Anyone would think I was about to strip you naked and have my wicked way with you.’

  When, her heart pounding against her ribs, she said nothing, he added softly, ‘But that comes later…’

  ‘If you lay a finger on me, I’ll scream.’

  He clicked his tongue. ‘How melodramatic. Unfortunately, there’s no one to hear you.’

  ‘There’s Mrs Boyce and her husband.’

  ‘They’ve retired for the night… And, as their accommodation is several hundred yards away, above the old stable block, you’d have to scream very loudly indeed.’

  She swallowed, her throat tight and dry. ‘There must be other servants…’

  ‘What staff I have live in modern bungalows on the estate. I’m afraid we’re quite alone, so screaming would be useless.

  ‘In any case, it’s unnecessary at the moment. I was only going to suggest that we had our coffee in front of the fire.’

  Feeling a little foolish, and realising vexedly that that was what he’d intended, she crossed to the hearth and sat down on the big leather couch while he collected the glass coffee jug from the hotplate.

  Surely this was just some cat-and-mouse game he was playing in order to frighten her? she thought distractedly. And if it was, all she needed to do was keep calm and refuse to be frightened.

  Which was easier said than done.

  And if it wasn’t?

  No, she couldn’t let herself think that way. There was only tonight to get through.

  Only?

  Then tomorrow morning she would find some way of leaving, she promised herself, even if she had to abandon her cases and walk…

  ‘Planning your escape?’

  She jumped, and as her colour started to rise he laughed. ‘I’ve hit the nail on the head if that blush is anything to go by.’

  How could he walk in and out of her mind like that? she wondered agitatedly as she accepted the cup of coffee he handed her.

  He sat down beside her and, as though answering her question, went on, ‘You have a very expressive face. Just then you looked fiercely determined…

  ‘But I remember when you used to look eager and expectant, full of anticipation, hungry with desire and passion. Then afterwards, soft and dreamy, sated with love…’

  ‘Stop it!’ she cried.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Does the remembrance make you uncomfortable? As you profess to have loved Noel, do you regret two-timing him?’

  ‘I regret ever meeting you,’ she cried.

  ‘Life’s full of regrets. When we were in bed together, did you ever think of him? Regret that he wasn’t the one holding you, making love to you?’

  ‘Many times,’ she flashed and, seeing the way his mouth tightened, realised with a feeling of triumph that she’d scored a hit, even if it was only his pride that was hurt.

  ‘Was Alan a good lover?’

  Rattled by the unexpected question, she answered sharply, ‘That’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘How many other men have you had apart from him?’

  ‘How many other women have you had apart from—?’ About to say ‘Fiona’, she brought herself up short.

  ‘Apart from…?’ He raised an eyebrow at her.

  When she said nothing, he suggested, ‘You? Well, I—’ She shook her head violently. ‘I don’t want to know. I really don’t care.’

  In truth, the idea of him making love to another woman still had the power to hurt. But his question had smacked far too much of the pot calling the kettle black.

  Slowly, he said, ‘I can’t say I’ve lived like a monk, Madeleine, but neither am I any Casanova. One woman in my life is enough…’

  You could have fooled me, she thought bleakly.

  ‘But not just any woman will do. In fact my bed’s been empty for quite a while…’

  If that was the truth, where was Fiona? Unless she was once again in some clinic?

  ‘The only thing I’ve had to warm it has been the dream of having you there…’

  Though she knew now how faithless he was, her heart seemed to turn over in her breast.

  Unable to stand any more, she put her coffee-cup down so that it rattled in the saucer and jumped to her feet. ‘I’m going up to the flat.’

  ‘Not just yet.’ He caught her wrist and, before she could brace herself, pulled her onto his lap and held her there, both hands encircling her waist.

  After a moment’s useless struggle she sat stiff and straight, her head turned away.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, looking at the pure curve of her cheek.

  ‘At one time you used to enjoy sitting on my lap in front of the fire… Especially if I—’

  ‘Well, now I’d hate it!’ she flashed.

  ‘If I weren’t a perfect gentleman I might move my hands a few inches higher and see whether or not that’s the truth.’

  Alarm made her heart race with suffocating speed. Her voice hoarse, she said, ‘You’d be wasting your time. As far as you’re concerned, I’m immune.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you. Your heart’s already beating faster, which, as you swore you weren’t afraid of me, suggests that you want me.’

  ‘I don’t want you. I don’t love you.’

  ‘You didn’t love me then, but you’re a very passionate woman and your body always responded to mine without reservations.’

  As she made to shake her head, he said, ‘Don’t bother to deny it. There are certain signs that couldn’t be faked. It’s something I’m sure of, and I don’t believe that’s altered. I could easily make you want me…give you a lot of pleasure…’

  Boldly, she rejoined, ‘My body possibly…but not my mind…and you once told me that a lot of sexual pleasure is generated in the mind…

  ‘Now I’d like to go to bed.’

  ‘Exactly where I want you.’ Taking the pins from her hair, so that it tumbled round her shoulders in a pale cloud, he added softly, ‘It’s high time you made some reparation.’

  Jolted, she asked through stiff lips, ‘What is there to make reparation for?’

  ‘No man likes to be made a fool of, to be taken for a ride then shrugged off—’

  ‘I didn’t—’ she began.

  ‘Oh, come! When your long-term lover returned to England you couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. I have to say it rankled… Now I expect you to make up for it…’

  So he was out for revenge, out to satisfy his wounded pride.

  Her voice choked, she said, ‘I don’t want to go to bed with you. I won’t go to bed with you.’ Then in desperation, ‘You can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of using force. It won’t be necessary.’ He sounded so sure of himself.

  Shudders running through her, she begged, ‘Oh, please, Rafe, don’t do this to me. I want to sleep in my own bed…alone…’

  When he released her, hardly daring to believe she’d won, Madeleine struggled to her feet.

  Rising at the same time, he put a light hand at her waist. ‘I’ll see you up.’

  Very conscious of his hand in the small of her back, she was partway across the hall when he stopped her, and said quizzically, ‘I’m afraid I can’t bring myself to kiss Mary, and it’s a shame to waste it.’

  As he turned her into his arms and tilted her chin, she caught sight of the mistletoe hanging over them. A second later everything was wiped from her mind as his mouth covere
d hers.

  Though his kiss was light to begin with, it had a devastating effect on her, and, shaken to the very core, she parted her lips beneath his the way a flower opened to the sun.

  He made a sound almost like a groan and, running his fingers into her hair, deepened the kiss, taking his own sweet time, until her head was spinning.

  There was nothing in the world but this man, his lips, his arms, the warmth and strength of his body, the memories of how it had been, and what he’d once meant to her.

  When he finally freed her mouth, blind and dizzy, she swayed and clung to him.

  He steadied her, then, lifting her high in his arms, carried her up the stairs. It was like something that was happening in a dream, something she was experiencing, yet not quite real.

  When he set her down and flicked on the light she saw that she was in a strange room, a masculine room with a dark blue and white decor, a central chandelier and a king-sized four-poster bed with a blue and silver canopy.

  ‘You told me you wanted to sleep alone in your own bed. If you still want that, you’re free to go.’

  Her whole body crying out for him, she could feel the heat running through her, the passionate hunger, the over-whelming need.

  She knew with blinding clarity that she was still in love with him, and no matter that he didn’t love her, no matter that he just wanted to use her, he was the only man she would ever love. She was forever tied to him.

  ‘Do you still want that?’ he repeated.

  No!

  She wasn’t sure whether she’d spoken the word aloud, or whether he’d read her surrender, but, his eyes never leaving her face, he began to strip off his clothes.

  Her throat dry, her heart beating fast, she stood wide-eyed and defenceless, as if bewitched, and watched him.

  He discarded his shoes and socks before taking off and tossing aside the black sweater. Then slowly he unfastened the belt of his trousers, dealt with the clip and zip, slid them down over lean hips and stepped out of them. A moment later his dark silk boxer shorts followed.

  Naked, he sat on the edge of the bed and said, as he’d once said before, but this time it was a command, ‘Take off your clothes for me.’

  With trembling fingers, she began to strip off her things—shoes, stockings, dress and slip. When she reached behind her to unfasten her bra he got to his feet and, gripping her hands, trapped them there. Then he smiled into her eyes, and bent his head to put his mouth to her breast.

  Through the delicate lace of the low-cut cups she could feel the heat and dampness, and her nipples firmed, needing more, aching for the exquisite sensations his mouth and tongue could bestow.

  She tried to free her hands, but he wouldn’t allow it. Instead he traced the upper curve of her breast with his tongue, coming tantalisingly close, but carrying on to the valley between and the other breast without giving her what she craved.

  Then, holding both her wrists with one hand, he used the thumb of his free hand to stimulate without satisfying, while his mouth worked its way up to the warm hollow at the base of her throat and lingered there sensually.

  Then suddenly she was free and he was back on the bed, watching her with green eyes that had gone dark and smoky.

  She tossed aside the bra and slid the matching panties down over slender hips.

  ‘Come here,’ he ordered softly.

  When she went to him he turned her round and pulled her down between his spread knees. Then, sliding his hands beneath her arms, he began to fondle her small, well-shaped breasts.

  She could feel the roughness of his legs against her thighs and his firm flesh pressing urgently against the base of her spine. Even so, he seemed to be in no hurry, but to enjoy pleasuring her.

  In the cheval-glass opposite she could see the pair of them reflected, the blonde head and the almost black, his tanned, muscular body in sharp male contrast to her pale, very womanly curves.

  See what he was doing to her. How, his lean fingers dark against the creamy skin of her breasts, he was alternately stroking and teasing the dusky-pink nipples, pinching and tugging slightly, rolling each of them between a thumb and forefinger.

  In some indefinable way the erotic sight added to the sensations, making them more intense.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it a moment longer he slid one hand between her thighs, and with long, probing fingers drew all the exquisite sensations into a glorious whole.

  When she jerked and began to shudder helplessly he put an arm around her and, drawing her back, held her more firmly against him. It was like holding a lit sparkler, all fire and light.

  She was still quivering, still breathing fast when, his hands at her waist, he lifted her to her feet. ‘Now let’s see what you’ve learnt.’

  Startled, she turned to look at him.

  His green eyes mocking, he said, ‘The days when women were expected to lie down and think of England are well and truly over. In these modern times women are men’s sexual equals, so now it’s your turn to make love to me.’

  Stretching out indolently on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, he waited.

  While her heart hammered against her breastbone, she dragged air into her lungs and, her hands unsteady, pushed back the long strands of blonde hair that were clinging damply to her cheeks.

  ‘In the past you’ve always made a pretence of being a little shy and innocent,’ he added caustically. ‘Now you don’t have to pretend any longer, so let’s see what you know or what you’ve learnt since then.’

  Her eyes filled with unspoken anguish and she bent her head and looked down, the overhead light casting the shadow of her long lashes onto her cheeks.

  That look punched a hole in his heart.

  He reached out and, taking her hand, squeezed it gently. A consoling gesture she remembered from the past. A gesture that now seemed to be merely mocking.

  Snatching her hand away, she said raggedly, ‘Very well, if that’s what you want.’

  When she awoke it was almost ten-thirty, and she was alone in the bed. While her body felt sleek and satisfied, her mind was a jumble of thoughts and mixed feelings.

  After her somewhat clumsy attempt to make love to him, mortified by her own inexperience, she had been turning away when he stopped her.

  ‘Let me go.’ She tried to break free. ‘I’m going back to the flat to spend the night.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s too late.’

  Suddenly he rolled and, reversing their positions, trapped her body beneath his. His weight sparked off a heated rush of desire that made her quiver.

  Feeling that betraying movement, he put his mouth to her breast and felt her hips jerk in response.

  As he recognised that her need was almost as great as his own, his lovemaking was hard and fast and intense, focused simply on the twin goals of pleasure and release.

  Caught up in the dark glory of it, her breath ragged, she let go of the hurt and anger and abandoned herself.

  This was real. This was enough.

  Only it wasn’t.

  Despite the explosion of ecstasy, despite the bodily bliss, there was so much missing—the caring, the warmth, the commitment.

  She started to cry, and the tears simply wouldn’t stop. He gathered her up and cradled her to him.

  When she was all cried out, he kissed her wet cheeks and, holding her in the crook of his arm, settled her head on his shoulder.

  Totally drained, emotionally exhausted, she slept almost at once.

  In the early hours of the morning, still tangled in the gossamer threads of a lovely dream of a summer picnic she and Rafe had once shared, she reached out and touched him.

  He stirred and turned his head, so that his face pressed into the curve of her neck.

  Warm and sleepy, she snuggled against him and felt his immediate response, the hard hammer-blows of his heart as his arms closed round her. Then in the darkness his lips had found hers, and he was kissing her with a passion that once more set her a
light.

  They had kissed and caressed and made love a second time with an undiminished hunger, before falling asleep again in each other’s arms.

  Recalling the piercing beauty of their lovemaking, she felt her eyes fill with tears. She wept then for a lot of things. For past mistakes that couldn’t be altered, for still loving him in spite of everything, but most of all for giving in and going to bed with him.

  If she had been strong enough to hold out against him he wouldn’t have forced her, she was sure of that. It was her own need for him that had been her downfall, that had wiped out this last year as if it had never been and left her once more in his thrall.

  Despairingly she asked herself, how was it possible to go on loving a man who, once he’d had his revenge, for that was what it amounted to, wouldn’t give her a second thought?

  Even so, and though she despised herself, she knew that she might be tempted to stay and give him what he wanted from her, if only Fiona didn’t exist…

  But the other woman did exist and presumably she still loved Rafe in spite of everything. Still hoped to marry him.

  Poor Fiona.

  How was it possible for two women to go on loving a man who was basically rotten?

  Three women, if she counted Harriet Rampling.

  Out of the blue and for the first time, Madeleine found herself wondering about the relationship between Rafe and his godmother.

  How was it that, after he had treated her daughter so shabbily, and apparently reneged on the bargain he had made with her husband, Harriet Rampling and her godson were still so close that she would choose to live in his house?

  It didn’t seem to make any sense.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MADELINE was drying her cheeks with the back of her hand when the bedroom door opened and Rafe came in carrying a tray of coffee.

  He was wearing stone-coloured trousers and a fine olive-green sweater with a loose, sleeveless jerkin. His thick dark hair, a shade longer than was fashionable and trying to curl, was brushed back from a high forehead.

  Needing to be in control, she sat upright and, pulling the duvet up to cover her nakedness, trapped it under her arms.