by Неизвестный
As he watched her, she became more frantic, the lovely curving lines of her back becoming stiff and rigid. He had two choices: to take her in his arms, kiss her passionately and resolve this desperate wanting, or leave her alone. He knew what he longed to do. Such an action would inevitably provoke a sharp rebuke from her. Maybe a slap. A piece of her mind. Then he’d have no option but to apologise and leave. It would be over.
Yet it would be a dishonourable move to make. After all, he wasn’t a callow youth, casting away rational thought in order to satisfy an unconquerable desire. Even if he felt like one, dammit! No, he should earn his rejection some other way. A straightforward insulting suggestion, perhaps. He had to remember that she belonged to someone else. The faithful Tim.
The objection was noted. He knew immediately that he intended to ignore it. He moved towards her. She turned, her eyes wide with alarm. Then he was looking down on her, frowning because her body seemed to be softening, and her expression had become suddenly voluptuous and sensual.
He didn’t stop to ask himself why. Slowly his gaze drifted over the parts his mouth would ravage. Her lips were parted, ready for him. He drew in a sharp, ragged breath and her long black lashes flickered down to her cheeks, almost as if in submission.
Hazily he angled his head, prolonging the delicious moment between spine—tingling anticipation and the actual, heart-stopping reality of the kiss.
CHAPTER THREE
‘What are you doing, you wicked man? Leave her alone, you-you gangster!’
Both Adam and Trish leapt apart at the grating cry of outrage from the cottage behind them. Startled, Trish tripped on the handle of the hoe and fell against Adam. His arms automatically came around her, twisting her round, bringing them both heavily to the ground.
Then Trish felt heavy blows raining down on Adam’s unprotected body and she tried instinctively to shield him. While he covered his head in a brief, involuntary movement, she looked up, just as Adam rolled over, grabbed the stout stick and wrenched it away.
‘Gran!’ yelled Trish in astonishment. ‘Stop! It’s OK!’
She began to laugh. Adam did too. The sight of a little white-haired old lady trying to beat the daylights out of an immensely powerful male was too funny for words.
‘He was creeping up on you!’ Gran said defiantly. ‘You didn’t know he was there and then you turned—’
‘Oh, I knew he was there,' Trish muttered, well aware that she’d been hoping, willing him to take her in his arms and kiss the breath from her body.
‘Here.’ Adam had got to his feet and was looking oddly at her. ‘Thanks for shielding me.’ He held out his hand. Wisely she dispensed with his help and managed on her own. ‘This is so embarrassing! Are you all right?" she asked him in concem.
‘His trousers aren’t,’ Gran said with malicious satisfaction. Trish’s gaze went to Adam’s slim hips. The beige trousers were streaked with grass stains. He brushed leaves from his thighs, briefly stretching the material over taut muscles. She swallowed and dragged her gaze away, aware that it had lingered a little too long.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said breathily. ‘You’d do better to wear something tough and hard—wearing here, like jeans—’
‘Why? Is this a daily performance? Adam asked, his eyes brimming with wry humour.
Trish giggled. ‘Who can tell? Gran’s a bit unpredictable,'
she whispered under her breath. ‘Dear Gran!’ she went on affectionately. ‘This is Adam Foster. Petra’s stepfather. Adam, my grandmother, Mrs Hicks.’ They shook hands warily. ‘You remember I went to stay with the family in Truro?’ she reminded her grandmother.
‘Do I! You came back unexpected in a terrible fret. Some man at the bottom of that, I thought,'
Trish went pink. One of the few occasions when her grandmother’s memory worked perfectly, and it had to be this one!
‘Adam’s staying for a week or so—·’
‘Oh! I get it! Say no more. You’ve got together again. He was creeping up to snatch a quick kiss!’
‘No!’ They both shouted in unison. They looked at one another in alarm.
Patting Trish’s arm, her grandmother gave a knowing grin and tapped the side of her nose. ‘I’ll keep quiet. Better you,’ she said to the stunned Adam, ‘than that Tony.’
‘Tim,’ Trish said patiently, for what seemed like the millionth time. ,
‘Nice boy,’ her grandmother conceded. ‘Got no fire, though. Ted isn’t the kind of—’
‘Tim!’ insisted Trish.
‘Whoever.’ Her grandmother gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Trish needs a real man, like you, with a bit of life in him.’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Adam, hugely entertained.
‘Yes,’ Gran said, assessing him critically. ‘I think you’ll do nicely—’ , .
‘Gran!’ protested Trish, abashed and amused in equal measures. ‘You can’t say things like that! You make me want to run away and hide!’
‘You wouldn’t.’ Gran recovered her stick. ‘You’d be fretting about me, wondering if I was all right.’ She turned to Adam. ‘Very caring girl, is Trish. She looked after her mother for a year, rather than see her die in some foreign nursing home on St Mary’s. She’ll make sure I pop my clogs within sight of Seal Rock. Got a tender heart, Trish has. You couldn’t do better.'
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Adam said quietly, humouring her.
‘Don’t encourage her!’ complained Trish, infuriated at being the butt of the joke. ‘He’s not interested in me, Gran!’
she added iirmly.
‘Course he is! Look at your faces! You, beetroot-red; him, all smug and self—satisfied.’
Trish and Adam stole covert glances at one another, their expressions becoming instantly unreadable.
‘Nonsense! I’ve been scrabbling on the ground and Adam’s merely relieved to be alive! You’re embarrassing me, Gran——as usual!’ She turned to Adam, knowing she could only joke her way out of this one. ‘I’m waiting for Gran to pair me up with that wealthy shipowner who’s been in the news. She said he had good prospects, the other day.’
‘He has? Adam’s innocent expression turned to laughter again. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I won’t expect you to honour any proposals of marriage your grandmother makes on your behalf.'
A pain sawed jaggedly through her breast and she caught at it with her hand, placing her palm against her heart to contain her bitterness.
‘There,’ she said unsteadily, putting her arm around her grandmother’s bony shoulders. ‘Got the message? He wasn’t trying to kiss me—·’
‘Oh, yes, he was. Saw him about to grab you, didn’t I?’
Trish raised her eyes to the heavens. 'I should have warned you, Adam,’ she sighed. ‘Gran is very forthright.'
‘I don’t mind. I rather like it,’ he said drily. ‘Can I walk you back to the cottage, Mrs Hicks?’ he suggested, a gleam in his eyes.
‘Nice manners,' Gran approved. ‘But I’m not incapable of finding my own front door after eighty-five years. I’m not senile, you know.' She set off to her cottage and, with a voice loud enough to reach right across the island, called,
‘You stay and give her a decent kiss and cuddle!'
‘He’ll do nothing of the sort!’ cried Trish, feeling horribly hot and bothered. ‘Any more of this and I’ll ring the men in white coats to take you away!’
‘They’d have a job,’ murmured Adam.
Despite her embarrassment, Trish grinned. ‘I think you’re right. Gran!’ she called. ‘I’m going in to get dinner ready. You two can do what you like?
‘Let him help,’ called her grandmother over her shoulder.
‘Lucy’s coming. I don’t need help!’ Trish yelled back. Her grandmother paused by the honeysuckle bower. ‘If he’s your only guest, what do you need with Lucy? You’ll never make any money that way!’
‘I don’t need her,’ sighed Trish, heading for the kitchen door. ‘Lucy needs me.’
‘We all do
. Him as well, by the looks of him!’
With her grandmother’s knowing cackle in her rapidly reddening ears, Trish went into the house and put on an apron.
Adam exchanged smiles with the strangely silent Lucy, picked up Mrs Hicks’s escapee wool for the fifth time and tucked it in her knitting basket.
‘I think you’re a fraud,' he said calmly to the old lady.
‘You see more than you let on.’
‘Trish doesn’t know what she’s missing,’ declared Mrs Hicks. ‘Tell her I’m staying over with my friend in town tonight and shut the door on your way out.’
Knowing when he was being dismissed, he bade his goodbyes, restraining a grin at the thought of the ten or so houses by Bryher quay being dignified with the title of
‘town’
An excitement gripped him as he walked towards Trish’s cottage. Once Trish’s grandmother had told him that Trish felt deeply about him, that she had never stood that close to Tim in normal conversation, and her eyes didn’t dilate so obviously, he’d been overwhelmed by what he’d wanted to do to Trish. Touch her, kiss her, make love to her, make her cry out in pleasure...
He checked himself. This was taking him over. He’d built his reputation by being strong-minded, tough and decisive. With Trish, he felt anything but. Why was he risking his emotions by hankering after her?
Why did he care that she was wasting herself on Tim, Tom, Tony'? The old woman had made it plain that she didn’t think the young shop assistant was worthy of Trish. He tended to agree. The odd picnic and trip to the cinema didn’t make for a vibrant relationship. The passion was, according to Mrs Hicks, totally absent.
So, despite all the warnings in his head, he was hell-bent on finding out if the old woman was right. A potentially fatal combination of vanity and curiosity! But he had to discover the truth.
He twisted the ring on his finger. Soon he’d know, one way or the other.
By the time Adam wandered in, Trish’s blood pressure had climbed down from its dangerous level and her heart had stopped sending tom-tom messages to distant Africa. Adam was sensible. He’d make allowances for Gran. And, being the gentleman he was, he’d pretend he didn’t know that many of Gran’s claims were deadly accurate.
‘Been for a walk?’ she asked conversationally.
‘Talking to your grandmother.'
‘Oh, crumbs.'
She shot him a cautious look. He leant against the pine dresser with the simmering excitement of a man who’d just won the lottery. She blinked and hastily avoided his eyes. They were bright and full of fire, piercing into hers with an unnerving intensity. It was very unsettling, she thought in agitation, having a drop-dead gorgeous man hanging around._
‘She’s fascinating,' he observed. ‘Riveting, in fact.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him fold his arms decisively. Something had happened. Nervously she turned on the blender, disconcerted by the energy pouring from him and the off-putting air of intent.
‘You’re being very kind to Gran, considering she tried to beat the daylights out of you,’ she managed, shouting over the machine.
He smiled with sinister charm. ‘She wanted me to open a jar for her.’
Trish frowned. ‘She’s got a device.'
‘I know. I recommended one. She said she’d lost it.’
Damn! She’d over-blended the soup! Crossly, she flung in some more leek and parsnip chunks, flicked on the switch for a few moments and then sprinkled in some fresh coriander leaves.
'That was an excuse. I saw the opener,’ she told him curtly. ‘When I washed up for her.’
He shrugged carelessly. ‘No matter. We had an interesting chat.'
Help! As casually as possible, she asked, ‘What about?’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Knitting.’
‘You were riveted by her knitting?’ she asked incredulously.
‘It is rather...er...unique. She told me how she was always dropping stitches and you never showed your impatience with her, but unfailingly set her straight again.'
‘Sorry,’ Trish said, mortified by her grandmother’s matchmaking. ‘I’m afraid she’s trying to promote me into your good books.’
‘Successfully. I’m convinced you’re devoted,’ he said solemnly, either deliberately misunderstanding her remark or courteously choosing to do so. ‘Extraordinary, her knitting. She’s very proud of it, isn’t she?’ He was having difficulty keeping a straight face. ‘Interesting...er...scarf. If that’s what it is?’
Trish caught his eye and laughed, sharing the joke.
‘Could be an overland bridge to Tresco when it’s finished, for all I know! We measured it the other day. It’s nine feet four inches long! She drops stitches on an average of three times a day. I’ve perfected the art of sorting them out in between all my other jobs. She likes to keep her hands as mobile as possible for as long as possible, you see.’
‘You’re very good to her,’ he said softly.
‘It’s mutual. She looked after me when Mum died.’
‘I thought you were the one who did the looking after?’
‘I wasn’t talking about doing jobs like shopping and cooking. I meant emotionally.'
His eyes darkened. ‘I see. You were lucky to have her,’
he said, sounding strangely withdrawn.
Trish’s hands, busily crumbling the Stilton, suddenly stilled. ‘We all need a shoulder to lean on sometimes,' she said gently, realising why he was looking so strained. She decided to come out in the open about the mistake she’d made. ‘We both needed comforting, didn’t we, when Christine died?’
‘I don’t go in for self—pity. Or dwelling on the past.'
His tone and whole demeanour told her to keep off. He saw his ruthless elimination of anything that might touch his emotions as being a strength. She wasn’t sure. He’d always been uptight about certain things that had caught her heartstrings. Like that disabled child her catering college had subsidised, so that the kiddie could go to America for special treatment. Adam had cut her off in mid—explanation, written a huge cheque and told her not to discuss it again.
It was his choice to keep his emotions under wraps. Nothing to do with her. She saw the tightness of his expression and sought to relax him, knowing that she did so because she cared too much.
‘You’ve been decent about Gran’s brutality,’ she said jokingly. ‘Anywhere else, she might be locked up. Here, her fun.'y ways are tolerated. I usually prime guests about her,’ she explained, smiling up at him. ‘She says what she thinks and that can be disconcerting! And she’s always getting the wrong end of the stick.'
He rubbed his shoulder. ‘Are you kidding? I’d say she’d got the right end of the stick!’
As she giggled, Trish’s sharp eyes noticed him wince. She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Do you...?’ She hesitated. ‘If you think you’re developing bruises, perhaps I ought to treat them...’
Heavy black lashes hid his eyes, his attention apparently caught by the bunch of wild garlic on the dresser. Touching the dainty white blooms with a surprisingly delicate touch, he said, ‘I think I’m stiffening up.’ He looked up suddenly, his expression unreadable. ‘What do you think‘?’
‘I could. . .rub something in that would help,’ she offered, her concern getting the better of her wariness.
‘Uh-uh.’ He gave that some thought. ‘Yes. OK. Might be a good idea.'
Adam began to unbutton his shirt. Slowly. As if concentrating hard. She found that she was holding her breath. Annoyed with her stupidity, she became brisk and efficient, reaching down the iirst—aid box and removing the bottle of flower water. There was a whisper of cotton as the shirt was dropped to a chair.
‘Let’s hope your grandmother doesn’t come in,’ Adam murmured wickedly. ‘She’d get entirely the wrong idea. I’d be thrashed all over again!’
Trish gave a quick roll of her eyes. ‘She’s a tiger!’
Surprised by the husky croak which had emerged, she s
wallowed hard and reluctantly, longingly, raised her eyes to his naked chest.
He hooked a hand under the chair and carried it to the back door, tilting it so that it was wedged under the door handle. ‘Precautions,’ he said smoothly into the hushed silence. Of course it was a sensible move. Anyone could wander in and get the wrong impression. But something about his movements—or her thoughts, perhaps——made this seem to be a preparation for an illicit act. A tremor of fear and inexplicable excitement trickled through Trish as Adam moved purposefully towards her.
‘Where does it feel. . .uncomfortable?’ she asked, making an only adequate attempt to sound offhand.
‘Mainly across my back.’
‘Turn around.’
Her voice had become just a whisper. For several moments, Adam didn’t react——probably because he was startled by her huskiness. Knowing he’d be frowning at her helpless infatuation, she dared not meet his eyes. Instead, she remained frozen, staring at the magnificent spread of his chest. Toned. Tanned...
A tan. Skiing? The Caribbean? She remembered Louise’s echoing remarks and flashed her anguished eyes up to his.
‘Turn,’ she snapped out ctutly, and he turned with a tightening of his mouth. His fiancee was now firmly in her mind. There were some faint marks across his shoulders and she dabbed the diluted arnica on them perfunctorily. Every muscle seemed to be under tension. A surge of sympathy overcame her qualms and she took her time, making sure she covered the area carefully. She also worked slowly because it was a delight to touch his back, to stroke him and watch the ripples of muscle playing beneath the velvety skin.
‘Takes a long while, doesn’t it?’ he commented in a low, honeyed drawl.
She flushed. Had it?
‘You have to do it properly,' she said defensively. ‘I’ve finished now. The stiffness should ease off. Gran’s never done anything like this before. I really am sorry,’ she added humbly.
'Thanks.’ He didn’t put his shirt on, but leaned comfortably against the dresser again, watching Trish while she washed her hands and began hulling strawberries. ‘I won’t sue her,’ he teased. ‘She was defending you. God knows who she thought I was!’