by Jan Colley
Adam eyes were warm, soothing, full of compassion, but all he said was, “Wow.”
“I didn’t tell you this to get sympathy but you’re probably going to hear bits and pieces tonight.”
“Did you see your mother after that?” Adam asked.
Jasmine shook her head. “After an argument with Gill one day when I was about thirteen, I told her I wanted to see my real mother. Later, when I’d calmed down, she said I could if I wanted to and she would take me. But somehow, we never did.”
Her father hadn’t been so forbearing. He refused to allow her mother’s name to be mentioned. It was Gill who told her that her mother was so ill and so heavily medicated, she wouldn’t know her.
“Why New Zealand?” Adam asked.
Her shoulders rose. “Fresh start and about as far away as I could get.”
“Does Nick know any of this?”
“No.” It was as flat and final as she could make it.
He reached over the table and squeezed her shoulder briefly. “Thanks for telling me. Your secret is safe with me.”
Jasmine believed him. Then again, what choice did she have? She picked up her half-full glass and took a mouthful, then pushed it to the center of the table. “Drink up. We’ll be late for the meet and greet.”
After the locals left the estate, full of ale, cider and the cook’s excellent afternoon tea, Adam dressed for the dinner party, wandering around Jasmine’s room as he did. Although it was furnished fit for a princess, and obviously hadn’t been used as a regular bedroom for years, it retained some little touches of her. A stuffed toy or two, a collection of boy band CDs, a cluster of framed photos that had pride of place on an armoire that belonged in a museum, like nearly everything in this house.
One photo showed her in front of a huge Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square, if he wasn’t mistaken, dated 1994; she must have been about eleven years old. Another in a silver ball gown that still hung in her closet. He knew she was a member of one of his mother’s dancing clubs for a number of years.
Adam understood better now her fiercely guarded personality. She didn’t let people close because those close to her had let her down, abandoned her. Those she should have been able to trust—her mother, her lover—had, for whatever reason, turned their backs on her.
There was another photo of her with a handsome, thick-set young man in muddy boots and oilskins, leaning on a rifle. Jasmine looked about eighteen and wore a smile as fresh and open as a child’s. He wondered if that was the neighbor or a young Vincent de Burgh, the louse who had broken her heart.
He checked his watch and straightened his jacket, thinking at least he’d brightened up her sad eyes a bit last month. They’d gone clubbing, sailing and once for a wild motorcycle ride around the bays of Wellington. She’d lost her breath and laughed, saying she’d never done anything like that before. She took him to the ballet and cooked for him one night at her home. And the last night, when he’d finally got her into bed, there was no sadness or tight control, only passion.
And that, he supposed, opening the door and stepping out into the hallway, was why she had chosen him for this well-intentioned scheme to convince her father they were engaged. She didn’t know many people because she liked to keep to herself and with her backstory, who could blame her? Adam had made an effort, which was nothing unusual for him, but he suspected not many people in her life did that for her. Certainly not her father….
He would keep her secrets and keep her old man sweet for tonight but he wanted something, too, and he wasn’t her savior. Once she had helped to bring her uncle to the negotiating table, they would go their separate ways, hopefully after a last sensational night together. After what she’d been through, he doubted she had any illusions left about love and forever, and Adam had no time in the foreseeable future to take a woman seriously.
Jasmine came out of the room down the hall and waited when she saw him. She inspected him as he approached and nodded approvingly. He hadn’t expected to be hobnobbing with the gentry and had only brought a leather jacket, but Gill had come up with a smart sports jacket that fit perfectly.
“You look nice,” she said, and tucked her arm through his.
“And you are ravishing, as always,” he said. She wore her rich dark hair swept back in a loose French twist, long wisps trailing her shoulders. He liked the softer, less restrained look. Her trouser suit was platinum-gray, with a lacy cami underneath the open jacket and a dark green chiffon scarf looped simply around her neck and hanging down to her waist. Emerald and diamond studs glinted at her ears, her only jewelry. Simple, elegant, classy. “Very country,” he murmured as he escorted her proudly into the formal dining room. And from nowhere came the fleeting thought that if he ever was to take a woman seriously, it would be this woman….
The English gentry knew how to eat. It seemed compulsory to showcase every meat known to mankind on the same groaning table. The old historical dramas that showed Vikings and warriors at table, gnawing on a massive hock, were not so far removed from today, cutlery and table manners notwithstanding.
Jasmine’s father sat at the head of the long table of thirty guests. Most were older, all of them local, but there were a couple of people around Jasmine’s age that he learned had attended the same schools. She stayed close to him during the dinner and they were both relieved that her father did not mention the engagement. Adam was introduced as “Jane’s friend.”
As dinner was cleared away by the attentive staff, everyone adjourned to the large room called the orangery, a kind of insulated and robust conservatory, with underfloor heating, impressive sculptures, exotic plants and lots of glass. In the less formal situation, Jasmine’s attention was avidly sought. Everyone wanted to know how she liked New Zealand and when she was coming home. Left to his own devices for the first time, Adam engaged in conversation with a blustery gentleman whose brick-colored complexion increased alarmingly with every glass of port he was able to snag from the circling waiters.
“Oh, yes, I’ve known the family all my life,” the man said, his eagle eyes already scoping the progress of the next waiter. “Tragic story, Sir Nigel’s wife and all.”
Adam nodded absently, his eyes searching for Jasmine, bored by the man’s inebriated waffle. He prepared to make his excuses when he suddenly heard the name Stewart Cooper. He raised one eyebrow, signaling his interest.
“Both brothers loved the same woman, you know,” the man confided while Adam braced himself against the alcoholic fumes wafting from his companion’s mouth. He waved a meaty hand in Jasmine’s general direction. “Her daughter takes after her in looks. One only hopes not in morals or mental health.”
Adam turned to face the man and stepped forward, backing him up against the wall a little. He wanted to hear more but didn’t necessarily want the rest of the room to hear. “Really?”
The man needed no more encouragement. By the time he was finished, Adam knew every detail of the troubled marriage of his pretend fiancée’s parents. Every twisted betrayal and tragedy, and the aftermath of bitterness that lived on today.
She’d duped him. He set his glass on a passing waiter’s tray and went looking for her, his mood black. He’d been set up. Jasmine—or Jane—had no intention of helping him with his goal. How could she, when there was such a bitter rift between her family and her uncle that he would probably rather do business with a badger than any friend of hers?
The English rose had some major explaining to do. He found her coming back to the orangery, having just said good-night to her father. He waited until Gill led the frail man away, then turned on Jasmine, his anger close to the surface.
“What is it?” she asked, her brows knitting together.
Adam grasped her arm firmly. “I need to talk to you, darling,” he gritted, walking her away from the party. “Somewhere private, I think.”
She led him into a nearby room that must have been an office or library, as there were wall-to-wall books. The drapes were open and the b
right lights of the party across the courtyard lit up the falling snow in friendly sparkles.
Adam didn’t feel friendly at all. “How long did you think you could go on playing me for a fool?”
Jasmine drew the drapes and switched one small lamp on by the desk, but the cavernous room was still dim. She turned to face him, a resigned look in her face. “What did you hear?”
She wasn’t surprised, probably why she’d clamped herself to his side all night, he thought angrily. “That your mother was sleeping with both brothers, but when she got pregnant, she chose your father because he inherited the estate and Stewart got nothing. That the baby—your brother—was your uncle’s child, not your father’s. That she was so unhappy with your father, she was running away to Stewart on the night of the accident that killed his son.”
Jasmine held his gaze for a long moment, then swallowed and looked away. “I don’t know for sure that any of that is true,” she said quietly.
“You’ve never met him, have you?” That realization only angered him more. “I bet he doesn’t want anything to do with you. Why would he? Yet still, you promised me you’d set up a meeting.”
“And I will try, as I promised, after Christmas.”
Adam gave a derisive bark of laughter. “Don’t do me any favors, sweetheart. If he knows I’m at all connected with you, he’ll probably laugh me off the planet.”
Jasmine brushed her hands over her face and rubbed her arms. Her face radiated guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” He reached out and grasped both ends of the scarf she wore, watching her eyes widen. “Not good enough, I’m afraid.” He tugged on the scarf until Jasmine had no option but to take a step forward, and another.
“I’ll get what I need, with or without you,” he growled, referring to Stewart Cooper, “and I’ll take what I want, as well.”
She tottered another step forward, her mouth rounded and surprised and infinitely appealing. “What you want?” she whispered breathlessly.
Adam’s anger sizzled under his skin, aggravating him to a fever pitch of desire. He tugged her relentlessly forward, his eyes lighting hungrily on the delicate line of her shoulder exposed by the scarf as he seesawed it over her skin. Her pulse pumped and jerked in the hollow of her throat, mirroring his, he’d wager. The tip of her tongue shot out quickly to moisten her lips, capturing his avid attention. He had no idea where the hell they were, but he wasn’t averse to taking her right here, against the towering dusty bookcases, not twenty feet from where her peers partied on, oblivious.
“You, lovely Jasmine.” Adam bent his head to stop an inch away from her mouth. Her eyes filled his vision, hazed over, too dark to be gray. “As soon as possible,” he breathed, watching her beautiful lips part slightly. “As often as possible.” He closed that last inch, his tongue flicking out to sweep her lower lip. “You owe me that, at least.”
She shivered. Her front bumped up against his, ratcheting up the tension a little. Her breath escaped in a rush and she immediately gasped in another. From past experience, he’d say Ms. Cool, Calm and Collected was about to lose it, and he remembered every thrilling erotic detail of the last time she’d lost her composure.
Nothing wrong in helping her along. Adam let go of the scarf and put one finger in the waistband of her trousers. Her front bumped him again, all knobs and bone, soft and hard, bumping together, burning for more. His other hand circled the back of her neck as he tilted her face up and finally crushed his lips down on hers.
She opened for him immediately. He pulled her hard against him, dipping into her mouth with a hunger that blasted away any finesse he might normally employ, or that she might expect. Her scent was rich in subtle passion; the warmth and smoothness of her skin incited him to go deeper, push more insistently. Adam considered himself an experienced lover who always had his partner’s needs in mind, but with this woman, all bets were off. He wanted more fiercely, needed more of everything she could offer.
And he wasn’t the only one. Her tongue delved in and out of his mouth, maddening him. Her hands clutched and kneaded his shirt and she strained against him, her sighs loud in the dim room. Just as hungry, just as needy as he.
He maneuvered his hand inside the camisole and slid up toward her breasts. Jasmine’s spine tensed like steel and she pushed her front out hard against him. Her head fell back, breaking the kiss, and she moaned softly as his fingers caressed the underside of her firm globe. Heaven help him, she was so sweet, tasted so sweet.
And then a harsh white light flooded the room. Her eyes snapped open and locked on his, full of alarm. Adam cursed under his breath and looked toward the door. A man he didn’t recall seeing at the dinner party tonight stood there, framed in the light from the hallway.
They stared at each other, or more correctly, Adam glared at him, he stared at Jasmine and Jasmine—after a quick glance at the intruder—stared at Adam’s throat, her lips moving in soundless surprise.
“Can I help you?” Adam asked, the warning in his voice implying he’d like to help him into next week through the closed windows, if necessary. He took his hand out from under Jasmine’s top reluctantly, away from her glorious breasts that still rose and fell robustly.
It was an older version of the man in the photo in her room. Adam studied his pale and surprised face, impatiently waiting for his explanation. What, did he want to watch?
“I’m not sure,” the man said, his voice infuriatingly vague. “I thought I’d found my fiancée but it can’t be her, because you have your mouth and hands all over her.”
Five
J asmine’s eyes closed in distress. Ian! What on earth next? And why did he have to say that, of all things?
Her hands dropped from Adam’s shirt, trembling with interrupted passion, shock and now shame. She began to straighten her clothing, not sure which of the two of them she most did not want to look at. She felt, rather than saw Adam’s head slowly turning her way, and licked her chafed and sensitive lips nervously.
“What did he say?” he asked her softly.
Jasmine covered her mouth with her palm, exhaling. Excuses clamored to be let out: He didn’t mean it, it’s a joke, I was going to tell you…She took a step back from him, looking over at Ian, who looked as confused and embarrassed as she felt. Her heart clenched in sympathy. She walked quickly to him, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek. “Why aren’t you in Switzerland?”
Ian studied her face, looking somewhat relieved. “My father called to tell me you were back. You might have warned me. It was no mean task, getting flights at this time of year.”
She stepped back from him and glanced at Adam. His eyes bored into her face, one dark brow raised. He looked ready to explode.
Jasmine exhaled, agitated. She hated being agitated. “I’m not engaged,” she said to the room in general, not looking at either of them.
“To me or him?”
Oh, the softness of his voice, like a velvet noose…
“Well, technically—” Ian ventured.
She shot him a venomous look, willing him to shut up, then turned back to the smoldering man a few feet away. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, you don’t want to know what I think.”
Scathing, angry, disgusted. Arrows of displeasure pummeled her. Coming on top of learning about her family history, this could be the last straw for them.
Jasmine couldn’t bear not to see him again, not to be held or kissed by him again….
With a last hard look at her, he stepped forward. “I’ll be off, since I’m surplus to requirements.”
“Adam, I can explain.”
“I’ve had enough of your explanations.” He brushed past her, pausing to look into Ian’s face. “You’re welcome to her, mate. I’ve even warmed her up for you.”
Shame coursed through her and she hurried after him. Ian grabbed at her arm as she passed and she spun on him. “Why did you have to say that?”
“We need to talk.
Your father’s dying. You can’t keep putting it off.”
Jasmine shook him off, her eyes on the tall, angry figure striding away down the hallway.
“Talk to me, Jane.”
The agitation in Ian’s voice stopped her at the door but she didn’t turn around. “I have to go after him. Please, Ian, just wait for me here.”
He let out a petulant sigh. “I’ve been waiting all my life. When is it going to end?”
“A few more minutes,” she said with her back to him. “I promise.”
She found Adam in her room, tossing clothing and toiletries into his small overnight bag. If only he’d left this morning, as she’d intended. His face was closed and angry. She could barely believe he was the same man who had kissed her so passionately just a few minutes ago, as if he’d die if he hadn’t.
“Please don’t go.” She stood in the doorway, twisting the ends of her scarf in her hands. “It’s all a mistake.”
“It sure is.” He took off the borrowed jacket and laid it on the bed. “Thank Gill and your father for their hospitality.”
“Listen—” she said hurriedly; his bag was already packed and he’d picked up his leather jacket—“what he said…it’s not really true. It was just a silly pact we made five years ago before I left to live in New Zealand.”
“Jasmine—Jane—get this through your lovely head: I don’t care. I’ve had enough of your silly games and your secrets and your lies. I have wasted all the time I’m going to.”
“You have every right to be angry, but—” she walked to him swiftly and took his hand in hers “—please let me explain.”
With his dark glower and black leather jacket, he looked dangerous, unapproachable, but she had to try. She thought too much of him to just let him walk out, maybe forever.