'Coffee. Hot and black. Right. And Lucas,' she bit her lip, 'thanks. It probably sounds silly, but I didn't much like the idea of staying in that big old house all alone. And, Lucas,' she made a little shrug of regret, 'I'm sorry about Mrs Turner. I didn't mean to upset her.'
His reply was a smile that was almost tender, making her want to touch him, and if she hadn't known better she would have suspected he really felt a little something for her—beyond the merely physical he had admitted to—but she knew it couldn't be. He was only being moderately nice to her just now so he could stick two fingers up at the gentry.
The afternoon was exciting for two reasons, she was thinking as she stood later at the bow-window, looking out over the garden where she could see the sun sinking slowly behind a distant wood. It was exciting because Lucas was doing some very nerve-racking bidding over the phone, dealing, she couldn't help hearing, in thousands, tens of thousands in one instance, and the sums involved made even her gulp.
And the second reason, if she turned round now, was blatantly obvious.
He was lying sprawled full length on an enormous buttoned sofa in the middle of the sitting-room. Books and references were open all around him, and scraps of paper on which he had been doing his sums were scattered all over the floor. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and the neck was unfastened to reveal a deeply tanned torso. His hair, usually gleamingly immaculate, was rumpled like that of a little boy in the middle of a difficult stretch of homework. There was even a spare pencil stuck endearingly behind one ear. His concentration was ferocious. Even when she brought him a cup of coffee and slid down beside him, he barely lifted his glance. He was tuned in to what was happening in the saleroom down in London. Every so often she would hear the assistant at the other end murmur the state of the bidding from the floor. When he'd clinched that particular bid, he put his hand over the receiver and gave a war whoop.
'Good price?' she asked.
'So-so. But I got it. That's the main thing.' He looked at her. 'I hate doing it like this. Impossible to tell who you're up against. It's like driving blind.' He drank the rest of his coffee and pulled a face. 'Any chance of a hot one? I've one more bid on the books.' He consulted a piece of paper and began to speak into the receiver again.
She stood up, gazing long and lovingly at him. Like this, he was too easy to love. He was like a big cuddly bear.
He looked up again and caught her glance. Still talking into the receiver, he reached out a hand, pulling her down beside him without interrupting the flow of his conversation with the man at the other end.
Her silk dress rode up as he pulled her down, and his hand slid under the hem, then suddenly he was dragging her roughly against him, the telephone crushed between them. He began to move his hands rhythmically over her thighs, his dark head buried in the side of her neck, where she felt his tongue probing with a delicious caress, making her slither against him until she couldn't tell who was who. The phone tweeted and Lucas gave a small groan, pressing his lips several times against her own in a series of short, punctuating kisses that told her he was going to stop, but didn't want to.
He managed to drag the receiver to his ear without actually releasing her, and their, two faces pressed against it while he tried to listen in.
'Five,' he muttered into the mouthpiece when there was a lull, and, giving a rapid glance over his left elbow at the piece of paper he had marked out for the next bid, he added, 'Go to seven.'
There was a prolonged period when he didn't appear to have to say anything into the phone, and instead spent the few minutes available kissing Goldie thoroughly until she wanted to moan aloud with the agony of knowing he would have to stop again. He was beginning to breath heavily, and she gave a giggle when he put his lips near the receiver, imagining what the man on the other end might be thinking.
'You're outrageous, Goldie Eastwood, utterly outrageous,' he muttered. There was a voice at the other end, and Lucas replied normally enough, 'Have you reached seven yet? Then go on to eight and a half, then stop.'
'I'm outrageous?' she protested when he put the phone on the cushions between them. 'That's the pot calling the kettle black. I thought I was supposed to be seeing to the coffee when you dragged me down here?'
'You can see to me instead,' he said roughly, dragging her down even further so that she was lying under him. She felt her eyelids close with a heavenly feeling of helplessness as his body crushed down on hers. It was the most wonderful feeling, and she wrapped her arms tightly round his neck, trying to bring his lips down over her own again.
'Slow down, you wicked wench, I've got to clinch this last bid.' He reached out for the phone and wedged it between them so he could listen in without moving. Then he allowed his hands to roam exploratively over her slim body in its almost nothing little tube of white silk.
'Don't they teach you how to say no in Hollywood?' he teased, bringing his head down between her breasts.
'Don't bet on it. I've spent my life saying no until now,' she told him, laughing softly because it was true, and now she wanted to say yes for the very first time.
He jerked his head up, dull shock registering in the depths of his eyes, and was about to say something when the voice on the other end of the line broke into an excited stream of talk. Lucas grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear. 'All right and nine,' he said. His eyes were seeing something far away, the scene in the saleroom perhaps, and while he was engrossed Goldie managed to roll away from him and straighten out her dress. One of his hands groped around for her, but she avoided it and stood up.
'Yes, and nine-seven-five,' he was saying when she went out. He didn't look up.
She sat for a long time at the kitchen-table with her head in her hands, only bringing herself round to putting on the kettle after a full five minutes had elapsed. She was thanking the man at Sotheby's, whoever he was. She was thanking her lucky stars. She was thanking providence. But none of it eased the knife-wound in her heart.
She got up and poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds, watching it filter into the clear jug underneath. That look, that quick jerk of the head, had been all the eloquence he needed to tell her that up to that point in their so-called relationship he still thought of her as just another experienced little starlet with a sex-obsessed mind. Heavens, he had said as much already. Why had she thought he didn't mean it? This was the second time she'd got herself almost to the point of no return and something had come along and saved her. But this time she had changed things because she had told him something he didn't know.
When he came in his expression gave nothing away. Not whether he understood what she had told him, nor whether it made any difference. She waited, tensing as he moved close. 'That fresh coffee?' he asked, avoiding her glance.
She nodded, reaching for the pot and snatching her hand back as it collided with his.
He pulled out a chair and sat down, slumping suddenly as if all the energy had been pumped out of him. 'Quite an afternoon,' he said. Now he did look at her, searching her face with his bark-brown eyes as if requiring some comment.
'Did you get all you wanted?' she asked, meaning the pictures.
'Not all, no,' he replied.
She remembered their first meeting, when he had told Violet he always got what he wanted. Now it took on a suggestive double-meaning and she blushed.
'I suppose this is the sort of game-playing you go in for on your film sets,' he muttered. He ran two hands through the short dark hair. 'Does it make you feel good to know you've got me on the wrong foot?'
'I have?' She gazed uncomprehendingly into his eyes.
'You can hardly imagine I was pretending in there,' he snarled, scarcely raising his voice and gesturing towards the sitting-room. 'I suppose it gives you some kind of power-kick to be able to turn men on, and, when they're nice and ready to do anything for you, turn round and kick them in the gut.' His face twisted and he suddenly lunged across the table and trapped her hand on top of it with his own. '
Satisfied, then? Is this one more to notch up? What's the prize? Tease of the year? Do they have a special awards ceremony? I wouldn't put it past you.'
'You made the running, Lucas. It's not fair to put the blame on me.' She wanted to tell him how he made her feel, and that it was as painful for her to learn that there was no way forward, but instead she said, 'I'm not going to be your hors d'oeuvre between bids. Why should I be?'
He gave a harsh laugh. 'That's a good one. If I were going to make a meal of you, Goldie, it would be more than hors d'oeuvre!' He released her hand and, even though his grip had left a red mark, she longed to feel him touch her again.
She got up. 'I suppose I'd better go.'
'Go? Where?' He raised his dark head, eyes glittering at yet more provocation.
'Obviously I can't stay here with you!' she exploded.
'Don't you trust me?' he asked, heavily sarcastic.
'Hardly,' she riposted, matching his tone.
'You can't go and sit in that empty old house by yourself. Don't be ridiculous.'
'What the hell's it got to do with you?' she shouted.
'Because,' he explained levelly, 'I'm responsible for you. I've taken over from Hetty and Sam. So sit down and try to relax.'
'Might as well ask me to relax in a cage full of underfed lions,' she muttered, pulling out a chair with an ill grace.
'I'm underfed as well, am I?'
'You should know.' She glowered at him and wondered if she ought to risk leaving. But he would probably only come across and try to fetch her back.
'Why are you scowling like a ten-year-old?' he demanded.
'Because I don't like to think of you as my chaperon,' she retorted.
'Well, you need have no fears about my trying to get you into bed,' he told her bluntly. 'I should have gone on first impressions --'
'Even though they were wildly inaccurate?' she demanded.
'You're seriously sticking to this line about being a virgin?' he asked, disbelief written all over his face.
She tossed her head and didn't even bother to answer.
'Goldie,' his voice was soft, 'you don't have to say a thing like that. I take your point about hors d'oeuvre. It wasn't the time or the place. Couldn't you have just said you'd prefer a little more attention? I didn't mean to insult you . . .'He spread his hands. 'You simply looked so irresistible standing there in your little shift with that angelic face—r-' He stopped and his lip curled. 'Forget it. Let's spend a nice quiet evening in front of the television. And maybe later the Woollards will call and let us know how they're getting on. You never know your luck, they might even come back tonight.' Before she could agree or disagree, he went on, 'By rights we should be celebrating with champagne. I made a nice profit this afternoon.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Or would you see champagne as part of some devilish trick to get you into bed?'
'Now who's obsessed?' she returned, lifting her chin.
'Touché.' He smiled, and for the first time since coming off the phone there was genuine humour in his eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was rather grim news from the Woollards when their phone call finally came through. Their daughter was in hospital, said the son-in-law who made the call for them. Some minor complication had set in, and she was being kept in until the baby was born some time in the next few days. 'Sam and Hetty are helping me with the youngsters,' he told Lucas. 'Is everything all right at the house?'
'No problem,' Lucas told him. 'Tell Sam not to worry about the dogs.' When he rang off, Lucas shrugged. 'It looks as if you'll be staying a few days more.'
Goldie counted the bubbles in the glass of champagne he had insisted on opening to celebrate the victories of the afternoon, and wondered what to say.
The evening had so far been fraught with danger, for though she knew that if Lucas said he wasn't going to seduce her he meant it, every little look and gesture made her fall more deeply in love with him and yearn more desperately for him to change his mind.
When they weren't fighting like this evening he was perfect, funny and informative, and thoughtful of all her needs. She tried to make herself think of him as a country clod, but couldn't because it just wasn't true, and she cursed the superficial differences that seemed to conceal a true kinship beneath.
How could she say all this, though? Lucas had obviously stuck his neck out by making their liaison public. She couldn't expect more from him. He belonged to the de Maine dynasty. To Burgh Hall. To this little pocket of old England where she was the outcast.
'I think,' she said at last, 'I might hire a car and look up a few old friends . . . I'd quite like to stay in York,' she went on, building up the picture as she spoke. 'It's so long since I've had time just to potter around.' He didn't say anything. 'I'd really like to do some sightseeing,' she went on, and then, in case he offered to accompany her, she added, 'It'll be good to be alone for a few days. There were times on that film set when I thought I'd do anything to get away from people.'
He had accepted her plans without argument, and now, having survived a further night at millhouse, she had done exactly what she had set out to do: hired a car, booked into a small hotel in the city centre, visited one or two friends, and now stood beneath the great east window in York Minster, trying not to wish Lucas was standing beside her.
Later she went for a brisk walk on the walls, trying to avoid the swarms of American tourists, and stopping off for a pot of coffee and some cinnamon toast in the back room of Taylor's when she'd had enough of sightseeing. The coffee-house was just as she remembered, which wasn't surprising as it had stood on this same spot for the last two hundred years. It was all vaguely reassuring, suggesting that love, too, could last, though what other evidence there was she couldn't imagine. Ravella hadn't made love seem anything but ephemeral.
She bought some flower-sprigged dresses in Laura Ashley, quite out of her usual style, but somehow right for the temporary life she was living in the country, and she matched them with a pair of pale blue velvet slippers and some woolly cardigans. Her best buy was a long evening dress in palest pink, for it seemed that the invitation to the Hunt Ball was still on. Lucas rang her every evening before dinner to remind her.
Eventually she ran out of the need to be alone, and decided she would have to face up to seeing Lucas again and prepare herself for the run-up to their last goodbye. It was the ball that very evening, and, gritting her teeth, she drove carefully back over the wolds towards the particular fold in the hills containing the ancestral home of the de Maines—and more especially that of Lucas de Maine.
Lucas himself was just walking down the drive as if he was going somewhere when she swung in through the gate. Although she had warned him she would be arriving some time in the late afternoon, he still looked surprised, as if he hadn't really expected her at all. He came quickly towards the car and held the door. She was wearing one of the flower-sprigged dresses, and bunched the folds of the full skirt in one hand as she climbed out.
'You look sensational,' he murmured, reaching forward and kissing her conventionally on the cheek. 'What a change of image,' he added, taking in the short velvet jacket with the frog fastening and the pale stockings and neat patent shoes. 'You look so different,' he went on hurriedly as if he had to keep on talking. 'Are you sure you're not about to play a part in some film about honest country folk—a sort of saga of England between the wars? If you'd stayed in York any longer, no doubt you'd be arriving in medieval gear.'
She felt vaguely put out at this reaction, having secretly hoped that he would have been so knocked out by her appearance, he would have swept her into his arms at once. Instead he was unloading her bags from the car and striding on into the house as if there were a train to catch.
He, too, looked different, she noted. Gone were the baggy old corduroys and the fawn sweater with the brown leather patches. Instead he had on a pale grey suede bomber jacket she hadn't seen before, and a pair of matching light-coloured jeans. All very expensive-looking, but casua
l, too, like some fashionable pop star. It was a style that suited him because he had the tough physique to carry it off.
'Were you going somewhere?' she asked when she caught up with him.
'I just thought I'd have a stroll to the end of the drive,' he said, offhandedly. 'Been inside most of the day.' He avoided her glance and went through into the sitting-room. 'Want a drink?' he called back.
Expecting coffee or tea, she was surprised when he thrust a large gin and tonic into her hand. 'Here's to --' he paused, glass half-raised '—to film actresses everywhere.' He grinned.
'And farmers,' she added, 'and possibly some picture dealers, too.' They both laughed, and Goldie drank rather more than she'd intended as she tried to cover her confusion, but by then Lucas had gone back to the drinks cabinet and was fiddling around with the ice.
She took the opportunity to glance round. Everything looked slightly different. Tidier, perhaps. There were early daffodils in a brass bowl by the window, and the log fire was blazing cheerfully in the large open grate.
'It's lovely to be back,' she said before she could stop herself.
'Lovely to have you back.' He turned round and gave her a wide smile, making the commonplace rejoinder seem somehow significant. Goldie's heart leapt. Then she remembered the future.
'I've booked a flight back on the tenth,' she told him, going over to the fire and gazing into the leaping flames as if seeking inspiration. 'I decided after the last film I needed to have a break and really sort out my priorities. I thought I'd take off to the mountains, do some meditation, live simply, that sort of thing.'
'Won't you miss your friends?'
'I'll find out when I get there.' She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sort of grunt and she turned it quickly into a small cough. 'This Hunt Ball,' she asked, turning to look at him. 'What times does it start?'
'Oh, we'll drive over reasonably early,' he told her. 'Have to, as I'm on the committee. Got to greet everyone. That sort of thing. Did you get anything to wear?'
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