The Threat of Love

by Charlotte Lamb

  Gil's hands closed on her arms, his mouth burnt on her bare skin for a moment, while she trembled in his grip; then abruptly he whirled her round to face him and his head came down, his mouth seeking urgently.

  Caro couldn't even think. She stood on tiptoe to meet his mouth, her lips parting with a sigh of hungry pleasure, her arms going round his neck. Gil enclosed her with one arm, his hand pressing into her back to hold her closer, while his other hand caressed her neck, pushed her dress down to bare her shoulders. Vaguely she became aware of her dress slipping to the floor. It didn't seem to matter; all that mattered was her need for his kiss. She pressed closer to Gil, holding his head in both hands, her fingers clenched in his thick hair.

  He lifted her off the ground, his arms around her, still kissing her, and moved backwards to sink down on to the white couch. Caro opened her eyes then, pulled her head back, breathless and trembling. Gil held her on his lap, looking down into her grey eyes. He shrugged out of his jacket, tugged at his tie, pulled it off and let it fall to the carpet. She watched him undo his shirt, his lean body a pale tan colour, a rough wedge of dark hair growing up the centre of his muscled chest. Her mouth was dry. He watched her watching him; they stared at each other in a thick silence.

  Caro had never watched a man undress before; her ears thundered with the sound of her own blood, her heart was thudding violently inside her ribcage, she almost felt he must be able to see it beating, through her skin, and he was staring down as if he could, staring at her half-naked body, the intimate probe of his dark eyes a sensuous excitement. He pushed down the straps of her slip and bra, bent and kissed her warm, bare breast, his lips and tongue seducing her, sending shivers of response through her.

  'Touch me,' he whispered, and shyly at first, uncertainly, she reached out a hand to stroke, to caress, her fingertips so sensitised by then that when they first touched his bare skin it was like being given an electric shock; her whole body shuddered. His body was so cool and firm; she explored it, staring at him, and Gil watched her, his eyes half closed, his breathing thick. She began to moan; she had lost control; the common sense on which she prided herself snapped, and her senses took her into a new dimension of sensual intensity; she flung herself against him, her lips open against his shoulder, his neck, his chest, wordlessly pleading, begging, the hoarse cries of sexual need.

  'Do you know what you're doing?' Gil said huskily, and she buried her face in him, unable to say the truth aloud. She knew, oh, she knew, and she wanted him too badly to care about what might happen afterwards. He shifted and pushed her down into the deep, yielding leather of the couch, his body rose above her, she saw through almost closed eyes the golden gleam of his naked skin as he shed the last of his clothes. Caro wriggled out of her own, keeping her eyes shut but knowing he watched her.

  'I won't hurt you,' he said, brushing the hair back from her hot face. 'It is the first time for you, isn't it? The first time has to be good, you never forget it. I'll make it wonderful, Caro; something you won't want to forget.' He kissed her mouth, her throat, his lips gentle. His hands touched her breasts, her belly, her hips, brushing fire along her flesh, inciting her to a wild clamour of desire.

  She moved against him with mounting urgency, moaning his name. 'Gil, Gil. Yes. Oh, yes...'

  His hands were at her thighs, sliding between them, parting them, and his body followed, his bare skin smooth against her own for a moment before that first, tearing invasion. She gave a cry of pain, stiffening, and Gil murmured reassurance, 'Lie still, don't fight it, relax...' but the next move he made hurt even more and the heat drained out of her.

  'No, stop,' she begged, and Gil lay very still on her for a moment or two. When he didn't move it no longer hurt, and she relaxed again, enjoying the warmth and pleasure of his body on her. He kissed her gently, stroked her hair. She kissed him back whispering, 'Sorry, I'm sorry...'

  'No need to be,' he said, kissing her throat. 'No need to be sorry at all. I'm your first and that's a great compliment, I like that very much.' He kissed her breasts softly, first one and then the other, his tongue teasing, his hand splayed on her, spreading down over her flat belly to where their bodies had become one, and Caro gave a little groan of shock and pleasure at the brush of his fingertips there.

  He kissed her mouth and her arms closed on his body, she arched against him in a remorseless return of desire, and Gil began to move again, very slowly, very gently, the rhythm building up until she was moving with him, her cries wild, her head thrown back.

  Afterwards she felt as if she had fallen into a deep dark lake and drowned in abandonment. She lay in exhausted contentment, her body limp, and Gil lay beside her, his arm thrown across her, his head pillowed on her breast, his legs warmly twined with hers.

  There was nothing to say, nothing that needed saying; happier than she had ever been in her life before, Caro slowly drifted into sleep.

  A loud ringing shocked her awake; her eyes flew open, for a second not sure where she was, then she felt Gil's nakedness next to her, his hand on her breast, his legs pinning hers, and she remembered everything, and was at once crimson and couldn't look at him.

  Gil swore huskily, sitting up. He looked down at her, as if amazed to see her, and Caro could have died. She shut her eyes, like a child who believed that that would make her invisible.

  'Who the hell can be ringing at this hour?' he said and got off the couch. Opening her eyes, Caro had a disturbing glimpse of his body as he stalked over to a table where a telephone was ringing. Her mind played instant replays of their lovemaking and she had to bite her lip to stop herself groaning. She had begged him to make love to her. She could hear herself moaning, pleading. She wished she were dead.

  Gil snatched up the phone. 'Yes?' he snapped, and then his face changed. He looked across the room at Caro, who was frantically dressing now, her hands fumbling, her face hotly flushed, her eyes shamed.

  'Yes, she's here,' Gil said slowly.

  Caro froze, looking at him in horrified query. 'It's your father, Caro,' Gil said in a flat, calm voice, but he didn't give her the phone. She could hear the loud and angry tones of her father's voice on the line. Gil listened, his mouth hard, and when Fred paused Gil quickly cut in.

  'Yes, I realise what the time is... The party went on

  quite late and... Oh, you had a call from Amy? Yes,

  well, we did leave some time ago, but we came back here

  to have a nightcap- '

  Fred's voice shouted him down for a moment; Caro couldn't hear what he was saying, but she knew that roar—her father was in a temper and trying to bully Gil. It did not seem to worry Gil, however. He interrupted Fred after a moment, his own voice brusque.

  'Caro isn't a child. She's a woman; an adult woman. Why don't you let her get on with her own life?'

  Caro had managed to get back into her dress now. She looked at her watch, horrified to see that it was four in the morning. She hurried over to grab the phone out of Gil's hand. 'I'll be home in ten minutes, Dad,' she said huskily and hung up before her father could say anything in reply.

  'Could you get dressed quickly?' she asked Gil without actually looking at him. She didn't need to; she was deeply, disturbingly aware of his nakedness and the close proximity of that sexy body was sending heat waves through her.

  He didn't move. 'Does he always wait up for you when you're out at night?' he said in a voice she did not like at all.

  'No, but--- ' she began and he cut across her words.

  'And does he always ring your date to complain if you aren't back by midnight? My God, I could understand it if you were a teenager, but you're apparently one of his top executives, a woman with a very important job. He seems to trust you at work—why doesn't he trust you to look after yourself on a date?'

  'He usually does---- '

  'Oh? Then why check up on me?'

  'I don't know,' she said irritably. 'He probably woke up and discovered I wasn't in, and was worried once he saw the time! I hadn't
warned him I'd be out all night.'

  'Do you have to have his permission?'

  'No, of course not... but...'

  'Do you often stay out all night?'

  'No, I don't,' she said furiously, because she thought he was making too much of a natural anxiety on her father's part. 'That's probably why Dad was worried.'

  'When is he going to let you grow up and take responsibility for yourself?' Gil drawled and moved towards her.

  Caro leapt back, her whole body tense with panic. 'Don't touch me!'

  Gil froze, and a silence settled over the room. Caro felt like crying. 'I 'm sorry,' she said, miserably. 'But I can't stand any more. I'm too tired, it has been a long night. Could you get dressed?'

  He walked away without another word, and, although she didn't look at him, she felt his physical presence with an intensity that frightened her. Her desire for him had not been sated by their lovemaking—it seemed to have been fed by it. She wanted him again—now.

  'I'll take you home, when I'm dressed,' he said remotely, picking up his shirt and beginning to put it on.

  'I can get a taxi home!' She swung towards the door, desperate to get away from him, but Gil snapped at her.

  'I'll drive you. I brought you here, and I owe you a favour.' He paused, then added in a deep, sarcastic voice, 'Two favours.'

  She winced at that, knowing all too well what he meant.

  'And it is four in the morning, and I insist on seeing you safely home,' he said. 'Why don't you freshen up? The bathroom is two doors down.'

  She was glad of an excuse to leave him alone to finish dressing. The bathroom was very masculine, elegantly functional, white, Victorian-style fittings in dark mahogany with blue and white wallpaper and curtains. Caro washed her hot face, patted it dry with one of the crisp white towels, looked with distaste at herself in the square, mahogany-framed mirror and tried to do something with her untidy hair. Her beautiful flame-red dress was crumpled, and there were faint red marks on her throat and shoulders, physical reminders of Gil's passion. She rearranged her dress to hide them, biting her lip. What if her father saw them?

  She didn't go back to the room where Gil was dressing; she waited in the hall. When he came out he said curtly, 'I must go to the bathroom now; excuse me a moment, I won't keep you long.'

  He spoke as if they were strangers, and she flinched, as if he had stabbed her. Gil vanished and she shut her eyes on a deep, painful sigh. He was angry with her; he probably regretted ever touching her. He had made love to her because he was unhappy over Miranda; it had been a crazy impulse, one he wished he hadn't given in to, and he blamed her.

  Gil came back, his black hair freshly brushed, his face damp, but still unshaven so that his jaw showed a dark stubble. He paused to check that he had the keys to the Rolls, then opened the front door, gesturing to her to walk out first. It was half-past four now; dawn was breaking, a grey dawn which made London a city etched by half-light, the shapes of buildings looming out of the night here and there but the amber street lights still lit.

  Gil pulled the front door shut behind them. Caro took her first breath of morning air, looking up at the sky to test the weather, and at that instant somebody darted towards them, apparently from nowhere. Caro gave a gasp, thinking at first that it was a mugger; they were being attacked.

  Then there was a flash and she realised her mistake. Oh, they were under attack, all right, but not by thieves. This was a photographer, snatching shots of them. She gave a horrified wail and Gil leapt to her side, putting an arm round her, pushing her head into his chest and covering her face with his hand.

  There was another flash, and then another, she heard Gil swearing and was aghast at the violence of the language. He let go of her to rush at the photographer who froze for a second, taking more rapid pictures, before running, with Gil in hot pursuit. Caro stood, shivering in the cold morning air, staring. A car engine started and a vehicle moved towards them; it slowed, a door flapping open at the passenger side, the photographer leapt in and then the car shot away. Gil chased it briefly but of course he had no chance of catching it. He came running back, face dark red, lungs panting, unlocked the Rolls and climbed behind the wheel.

  'Get in!' he shouted at Caro, and she clambered in beside him. Before she could even slam the door, the

  Rolls was moving. 'I want to follow the swine back to his lair,' Gil snarled. 'I bet he's the same fellow who snapped me fighting with Colin. Hasn't he got anything better to do than follow me around?'

  Caro didn't need to answer that. They turned the corner but there was no longer any sign of the other vehicle. Gil swore again, and accelerated to the next street, but it was empty. They drove on for another few minutes before he admitted defeat; he had lost the other car.

  He drew up, banging his long, powerful hands on the wheel, grinding his teeth in fury. 'Oh, if I ever get my hands on that guy. How does he always turn up at the wrong moment? Has he got second sight?' He scowled, his mouth a white line, stared at nothing for a moment, then turned slowly to stare at Caro. 'Somebody tipped him off,' he said, eyes narrowing. 'Somebody told him you were at my flat. Now why would somebody do that?'

  Caro was puzzled. 'Do you think Miranda...?'

  Gil went on staring fixedly at her. His face was hard and unsmiling; it frightened Caro, the way he was staring at her. What was he thinking?

  'No, not Miranda,' he said. 'Her ego wouldn't want the rest of the world to know there was another woman in my flat.'

  He was right, Caro saw that immediately. Miranda wouldn't spread this story, especially as she could only do so by explaining that she was at the flat herself and had been thrown out.

  'Maybe the Press had been tipped off that Miranda was here?' she suggested.

  'Then the photographer must have seen her leaving, and got his picture—why would he stay on after that?'

  Caro shook her head, baffled. T don't know.' And why was he looking at her as if she were a caterpillar in his lettuce? Was she being blamed for this, too?

  'Oh, of course you don't,' Gil said bitingly. 'Your father rings my flat to check you're with me and you insist on leaving right away, at four in the morning— and lo and behold! There's a photographer lurking outside.' He laughed shortly. 'Well, what an odd coincidence. But why didn't you have them waiting outside the window? What a picture they could have got earlier! That would have made a sensation!'

  Caro got the point then. She turned scarlet, then paled. 'What on earth do I have to gain by getting myself photographed with you?' she asked him angrily.

  'You tell me!' Gil said, and then he drove on very fast without another word. She sat beside him, burning with indignation. How could he suspect her of doing such a thing? What possible reason could she have?

  He pulled up outside her home with a jolt of brakes and a screech of tyres which sent her toppling forward, almost hitting the windscreen. She recovered, fumblingly undid her seatbelt and turned to get out. Gil's hand shot out, seized her arm in an iron grip.

  'I'm not marrying you!' he snarled. 'Do you understand? Whatever happens, however bad the publicity, I am not being stampeded into a shotgun wedding.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Her father opened the door before Caro reached it.

  'What time of night do you call this? What's going on

  between you and Martell? I know I told you to be nice

  to him, but I didn't mean '

  She wouldn't, couldn't let him finish that sentence. 'Be quiet, Dad!' she shouted, still anguished by the last thing Gil had said to her. Surely he didn't really believe she had rung that photographer in the hope of making Gil marry her? Hurt, ashamed, full of self-hatred, she turned it all on her father, her grey eyes glittering with tears. 'You had no right to ring my friends, checking up on me as if I were a schoolgirl—asking where I was, who was with me... Didn't it occur to you what sort of rumours you might start?'

  'Don't you talk to me like that, my girl!' Fred muttered, his brows heavy. 'I was worrie
d about you, after

  Amy rang-- '

  'Amy rang you?' she repeated, eyes widening. 'You didn't ring Amy, then?' That put a different complexion on it.

  'No, she rang me.' Her little outburst had oddly done something to calm her father's temper. He was watching her as if puzzled, and Caro knew she was acting unusually; she had never defied her father before, never shouted at him, they had always had a good relationship. 'She woke me up, in fact,' Fred expanded. 'I'd gone to bed at half-past ten, I was tired. It must have been around one in the morning when Amy rang.'

  'I know, I'm sorry I forgot, it won't happen again,' Caro promised, but her mind was busy with other thoughts. Was it Amy who had tipped off the photographers? But why? What possible motive could she have? Surely Amy hadn't been jealous over Gil? Well, not that jealous, anyway. Not jealous enough to do such a spiteful thing to her oldest friend? Caro drank some of the weak, milky tea, and yawned. She was so tired she could cry.

  'Off to bed with you!' her father said with rough affection, now completely back to his usual good-tempered self. He took her empty cup. 'You're dead on your feet. As it's Sunday morning, you can sleep as late as you like, though.'

  'Goodnight, Dad,' she said, yawning again, yet once she was in bed she couldn't get to sleep because she kept remembering the events of the night. It had been a crowded night; she shut her eyes with a muffled groan, mentally reliving it. She hadn't believed herself capable of such desire; she was hot just thinking about it. She had practically thrown herself at him. How could she have acted that way? Her father had looked at her so strangely, as though reading something in her face. Did she look very different? She felt it.

  She gave up trying to sleep at about eight-thirty. Her father was nowhere to be seen; he was probably catching up on his lost night's sleep. Fred had always been able to nap whenever it suited him. Caro took a cool shower, dressed in a blue tracksuit, without bothering to put on make-up or do more than brush her hair back, then went jogging through the park. There were rarely many people about at that hour on a Sunday; a few dog-walkers, a few children and the odd jogger, like herself, loping along the wide paths between the grass and trees.