by Sara Craven
She wondered if Kylie was speaking from experience, and bitter pain slashed at her.
‘But you should be flattered,’ she went on, too brightly. ‘That’s one of her most successful books.’ She glanced round. ‘Where is Kylie, anyway?’
‘She’s having lunch at Lyford Cay with some people she met last night. I thought I’d leave her to it.’ He paused. ‘About this engagement—it might be better if you waited till I came back to England before making any announcement. I’m more used to handling the Press than you are, and they’re bound to ask awkward questions.’
Maggie looked down at the tiles. ‘I’d rather get it over with, if you don’t mind. Seb can make the announcement for me, and I can—keep out of the way for a while. I—I thought I’d spend the rest of my vacation time in New York with Louie and the baby. That should do the trick.’
‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ Jay closed the book with a snap, and tossed it on to the lounger beside him.
‘We have to be—practical.’
‘By all means,’ he said shortly. ‘Tell them what the hell you want.’
‘That’s settled then.’ Maggie slipped off the flowered shirt she was wearing over her bikini. As Jay watched unsmilingly, she took the padded mattress from one of the loungers and spread it on the tiles, then sat down, and began to apply sun oil to her shoulders and arms. She took her time over it, aware of the trembling excitement beginning to build inside her under his unwinking regard.
She applied the glistening oil to the tops of her breasts and skimmed over the flatness of her stomach, aware in the vibrating silence of his sudden intake of breath. She tipped oil into her cupped hands and ran them over her slender thighs and down her long legs to the tips of her toes. When she had finished, she looked at him and held out the bottle.
‘You said—any time,’ she reminded him, keeping her voice steady with an immense effort. ‘Would you—oil my back please?’
There was a palpable hesitation before Jay took the bottle and knelt beside her. Maggie turned on to her stomach, and closed her eyes.
This was madness, and she knew it. But, dear heavens, the memory of his touch was so little to take away with her out of the sunlight into the dark and the loneliness without him.
Let me have these few moments, she prayed. I’ll ask for nothing more.
His fingers pressed into her skin with delicate circling movements, and she turned her head into the cushion with a little pleasurable sigh. From the nape of her neck to the tips of her shoulders and in to the sensitive column of her spine, his hands soothed and stroked. Every cell in her body seemed to be glowing, and a delicious lassitude was spreading through her. She felt as weak as if she had been new born, but at the same time never more alive.
‘You’ve actually relaxed.’ There was a curious note in his voice.
‘I’m cured,’ she said. ‘Thanks to you.’
‘I wonder.’ His hands reached the fastening of her bikini. She felt him pull gently at the strings and then brush the scraps of material away from her body. His hands glided without restriction the whole length of her back to the line of her briefs, his touch an unashamed caress, overtly sensual. ‘How cured are you?’
Slowly she turned. She lay on her back, looking up at him, and her hand went up to touch his face. She said huskily, ‘Completely.’
He said her name, half under his breath, on a shaken note of disbelief, then bent his head and took her mouth with his. His lips played with hers as he outlined their parted fulness with his tongue, then gently tugged at the softness of her lower lip with his teeth.
His hand lifted and cupped one small bare breast, his fingers stroking the urgent, hardening nipple until she moaned into his mouth with excitement.
The thrust of his tongue against hers was suddenly fierce, almost savage, as if the sound she had made had tipped him over some edge of restraint, and she responded passionately, with total abandon, the last remnants of sanity slipping away, as she felt the length of his aroused body pressing her down into the cushions.
They clung to each other, exchanging kiss for heated kiss, until at last Jay lifted his head and looked down at her face, the blue eyes brilliant, the skin taut over his cheekbones.
He bent again, and his mouth caressed her arched throat and moved downwards to her eager breasts. She gasped aloud as his lips found first one erect peak and then the other, tugging at them softly, before tormenting them with the subtle friction of his tongue. Pleasure lanced through her.
She lifted her hips, arching them invitingly against his, and his hands slid down her body, sweeping away her bikini briefs in one swift movement.
He kissed her mouth, and his hand touched, moulded the soft mound of her womanhood with new and devastating gentleness. Her mouth was dry suddenly, and she was almost afraid of the intimacy he was demanding. But the warm coaxing of his lips and hands were irresistible, and with a sigh she parted her thighs, allowing him access to the warm and silken moisture of her that he sought.
The sun was dazzling on her closed lids, and its heat was all around her. Inside her, too, like a slow fire, scorching her with its sheer intensity.
His tongue, moving delicately against hers, echoed the sweet arousing play of his fingers, as he found the tiny centre of her pleasure and lingered there, teaching her slowly the meaning of this new experience. Then—caressing, tantalising, driving her slowly but inexorably towards some undreamed-of brink.
Her body moved restlessly, feverishly against his hand, searching, blindly seeking. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, or think. Her whole being was concentrated in astonished delight on the first sharp ripples of sensation within her. The ripples became a wave, then a tide of pulsation, half pain, half rapture, and she cried out, burying her face in his shoulder as she was caught and carried away on the agonised, voluptuous flood of feeling.
As it slowly began to ebb, she opened dazed eyes and looked at him in wonder.
It had been beautiful—indescribable—yet, at the same time, it wasn’t enough. She wanted to know it all—to experience the strength and power of his maleness inside her.
She lifted languorous hands to touch him, to make him aware, without words, of her need—her desire.
And tensed in shock, in negation, as he almost flung himself away from her.
‘No.’ The word was ground out of his throat. ‘That’s as far as we go.’
She sat up, putting a hand on his sweat-dampened shoulder. ‘Jay?’
‘Just leave it, Maggie.’ His breathing was ragged, and he didn’t look at her.
‘I—I don’t understand.’ She pressed her lips to his unresponsive back. ‘You said—you told me that I’d have to do the asking. Oh, darling, I’m asking now—I’m begging you, please …’
‘I had no right to say any such thing.’ His voice was harsh. ‘And I had no right to make love to you in any way at all. Because it’s too late. It’s over—finished with. You know that as well as I do. We don’t need more bloody complications.’ He reached for her discarded shirt and tossed it to her, over his shoulder. ‘Put this on.’
She obeyed, her hands shaking. Suddenly her nakedness, the intimacy they had shared, seemed a shameful thing.
She said hoarsely, ‘Then why—why did you …?’
‘Because I wanted to touch you,’ he said bleakly. ‘I also told you that once, I believe. And having started—touching you—I couldn’t stop. I had to …’ He stopped, his mouth tightening.
‘And what I want,’ she said desperately. ‘Doesn’t that matter at all?’
‘You want to go home,’ he said. ‘And I want to stay. That’s what it comes down to in the end. The parting of the ways—two separate lives.’ He paused. ‘Do I have to put it more bluntly?’
There was a devil prompting her. ‘Are you—Kylie’s lover?’
‘Not yet,’ he said after a pause.
The words were like knives, piercing her. Feeling sick, she bent and retrieved her bikini from t
he floor, then got to her feet.
‘Then there’s really no more to be said.’
‘Unless you want me to say I’m sorry.’
‘The ultimate insult?’ She shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The book’s finished, so there’s no need for me to hang round here, waiting for a flight. I’ll find a room in Nassau. Tell—tell Kylie what you please.’
She walked away from him up the path to the house, her head high. This was the last time she would have to pretend to him. She thought. The last, and the most difficult, because she was having to pretend that her heart wasn’t broken.
But it is, she thought, as desolation caught her by the throat. It is …
‘Now then,’ said Mrs Grice. ‘Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?’ She gave Maggie a concerned look. ‘You look awfully peaky, dear, for someone who’s been to the Bahamas.’
‘I’m fine,’ Maggie assured her steadily. ‘And you’re very kind, Mrs Grice. You must let me write you a cheque for all this food.’ She hesitated. ‘I forgot to pay you for the last lot as well.’
‘Well, you did leave in rather a hurry,’ Mrs Grice said comfortably. She pursed her lips. ‘Nor were you the only one. That Dave Arnold up and packed his things too that same day, and went off without a minute’s notice to my Frank.’ She snorted. ‘Too much clearing up after the storm, and real hard work for him, I dare say. I never did take to him.’
‘Nor me,’ said Maggie with total sincerity. She paid Mrs Grice for the food and saw her off, waving from the doorway with a determined smile. When the door was closed, she almost sagged against it, fighting back the tears which had been threatening to overwhelm her for the past two days.
She had managed to get a flight without too much difficulty, and had spent the night at an airport hotel. The next day, she had taken the manuscript straight to the office. Philip had been in a meeting, so she had left the script with his secretary with the bald message that she would be away for the next week.
She dumped her case at the flat, and rang the garage where her car was being repaired to learn that it was ready for collection. Then she filled a suitcase and rang the farm to warn Mrs Grice that she was on her way.
The Grices were pleased to see her, but clearly disappointed that she was alone.
‘Fancy that Hal McGuire being on the doorstep, so to speak, and me not knowing,’ Mrs Grice had marvelled. ‘You never let on you knew him.’
Maggie had forced herself to smile and return some non-committal answer.
Now, she was thankful to be alone. The cottage seemed to enfold her, comforting her. She put the kettle on, and went upstairs. She stood in the bedroom doorway for a long time, staring at the bed, and remembering.
‘I can’t sleep there,’ she thought. ‘Not yet. I’ll use the other room. There are fewer memories there.’
Mrs Grice had stocked her with enough provisions for a siege yet again, but she wasn’t hungry. She made some strong black coffee when the kettle boiled, and sat in the rocking chair, sipping it, and staring into space with empty eyes.
Every time she thought of Jay, there was pain. And it wasn’t just mental anguish either, she realised. Her body, awakened sexually for the first time in her life, ached in frustration.
‘I’m a mess,’ she said bitterly, and aloud.
She tried hard not to think of him, of course, but it was impossible. Even here at World’s End, her sanctuary, everything conspired to remind her of his presence.
Coming down here had been an impulse. She’d had the phone in her hand to call Louie in New York when she had suddenly made up her mind that it was here or nowhere.
If she was to exorcise Jay permanently from her mind, maybe this was where she had to begin. Where her love for him had begun.
She put down the beaker with extreme care, and began to weep, soundlessly and hopelessly until there were no tears left. She filled a hot water bottle and went upstairs to the small bedroom, where she lay clasping it in her arms to counteract the chill of the sheets.
She had been a fool, and more than a fool. She had bared herself to him, body and soul, and been rejected. Now, she had to live with the humiliation of that forever.
And he was with Kylie, she thought, savaging her lower lip with her teeth.
‘Not yet’ he’d said when she had asked if he was her lover. But he would be by now, especially if Kylie had anything to do with it. Maybe he was even set to become her third husband.
A woman who knows what she wants and goes for it, he had called her, admiringly.
I tried to do the same, she thought wretchedly, and look where it got me.
She wondered how much older than him Kylie was, and chided herself for being a bitch. Perhaps when you were as glamorous and successful and sophisticated as Kylie St John age didn’t matter particularly.
She had hardly slept for the past two nights, and it didn’t look as if the pattern was going to change for the foreseeable future. What did it matter if she ended up with shadows like bruises under her eyes anyway? There was no one to see but herself.
In the end, she managed to doze for a while, then woke with a start.
The door, she thought. I forgot to bolt the door.
She had got warm at last, and the prospect of going downstairs again was not an attractive one, but it had to be done. Mrs Grice might have assured her that Dave Arnold had gone, but she couldn’t rid herself of the thought that he might be lurking somewhere in the neighbourhood, waiting for her to come back.
Reluctantly, she swung her bare feet to the floor and started downstairs.
As soon as she reached the bottom stair, she realised something was wrong. There was a draught of air, cold and direct as an icicle, blowing towards her across the living-room. She stared across at the door and saw with shock that it was open.
It must have blown off the latch, she thought. Then saw that it was opening slowly and deliberately towards her.
She tried to scream, but no sound would come.
He stepped into the kitchen, and stopped dead, looking across at her as she stood, a ghost in a white nightgown, her hand to her paralysed throat.
He said, ‘I suppose I should have knocked, but when I tried the door, it was open. I’m—sorry if I frightened you.’ He paused. ‘May I put on the light?’
She nodded, and he touched the switch, illuminating the room.
‘Were you asleep? Did I disturb you?’ He studied her frowningly. ‘It took me longer to get here than I’d planned.’
‘Why are you here?’ The voice she found emerged as a croak.
‘I came to see you—to talk.’
‘We—said everything.’
‘Did we?’ He paused. ‘You didn’t tell Seb we’d broken off our engagement. He said he hadn’t heard from you.’
‘I—thought I’d ring him in a day or two.’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no need.’ He reached inside his jacket, and took out a folded paper. ‘There’s a press release here I want you to see.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She didn’t want to see it in black and white—the ruin of every dream of hope and happiness she had ever had. ‘Say whatever you like, and I’ll go along with it.’
His face tautened. ‘Maggie—read it, please.’
She came slowly towards him and took the paper. ‘McGuire to become bestseller,’ she read aloud. She looked at him. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Keep reading.’ Jay hitched forward one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. He looked incredibly weary.
Independent film producer Sol Ebelstein announced today the teaming of top TV actor Jay “Hal McGuire” Delaney with best-selling novelist Kylie St John.
Maggie winced, but made herself read on.
Shooting will start soon on a film of The Midnight Hour, Miss St John’s sexy blockbuster, with Jay Delaney playing the lead as Scott Maxwell.
The deal was struck over dinner in Nassau this week. The Ebelsteins were staying at the luxur
y Lyford Cay resort, where they entertained Miss St John and her house-guest Jay Delaney, who was escorting his editorfiancée Margaret Carlyle.
Said Sol: ‘My wife loves that book, and she never misses an episode of McGuire. She says put the two together and we have a winner, and Gloria is never wrong.
‘I’m really excited about the project, and I’ll be in London to sign the contracts in a couple of days.’
Maggie put the paper down. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Maggie, you can read,’ he said patiently. ‘It means I’m going to make a film of The Midnight Hour. I told you Kylie said I reminded her of Scott Maxwell. Well, she buttonholed Gloria Ebelstein whom she knows slightly at this nightclub we were at, and told her the same thing. They went into a huddle, and Gloria got very excited and agreed to sell the idea to Sol. Apparently, he’s putty in her hands,’ he added drily.
‘The three of them had lunch together, and thrashed out the details. Then they called my agent, and talked about dates, and money.’ He pointed at the paper. ‘The rest you know.’
‘But I don’t know why you’re here. Why aren’t you still on New Providence, celebrating?’ With Kylie.
‘I told you. I needed to see you—talk to you.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She looked down at the release. ‘You don’t want the news of our broken engagement to coincide with this, I suppose. Well, it doesn’t matter. Handle it any way you want. There was no need to come all this way just to tell me this.’
‘If I handle it the way I want,’ he said slowly, ‘I shall say we’ve set the date for our wedding.’
The paper fluttered from her fingers. She took a step backwards. ‘You must be mad.’
‘I probably am. I know it’s too soon, but I can’t help myself.’ His head went back. He looked bleak, uncertain, vulnerable. ‘Maggie, my darling, my little love, give me a chance. Make our engagement a real one, and let me start courting you properly, just as I’d intended to do before Alcott and his fellow vultures got to us and pushed me into a corner.’