Sara Wood-Expectant Mistress original

by Неизвестный

  She gulped, disturbed and dismayed by her wicked delight. And rang the hospital.

  ‘She’s fine,’ the staff nurse said cheerfully. ‘Sitting up and demanding a doctor with cold hands and her enema.’

  Trish giggled with relief. ‘My fault! I threatened her with that to make her laugh. When can we collect her?’

  ‘I think she should stay for a day or two. Her blood pressure’s sky—high and, cold hands and enemas apart, she seems confused. Keeps talking about strawberry jam and wedding hats.'

  ‘It makes sense to me,’ Trish said hurriedly, looking up as Adam wandered in. She frowned, surprised by the sinister—looking clothes he was wearing and the extraordinary hairstyle he’d adopted. Then she gave her attention to the nurse again. ‘Well, if you're sure she’s enjoying herself... Yes, she’s in love with all the doctors on ER,’ she said wryly. ‘Warn the hospital staff, or one of them’ll find himself on honeymoon with her before he knows what’s hit him...Yes,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘Tell her we’ll come this afternoon. Thanks. Give her our love. Bye.'

  ‘Thank you for including me.’

  Trish blinked. It had been automatic. Suddenly she felt awkward. ‘Gran’s fine,’ she said noncommittally.

  ‘I’m very glad,’ he said, giving her a very intent and puzzled look. She put the table between them. ‘Last night,'

  she ventured nervously. ‘Did you...undress me?’

  Adam smiled slowly as if remembering something warm and delightful. ‘I carried you to your bedroom. Placed you on the bed...’

  Her eyes glued to his, Trish gulped and said breathlessly,

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lucy did the rest. She was waiting for us to return.'

  ‘Oh.’ Relief ran through her in ripples. ‘That was kind of her.’

  ‘She’s a jewel,’ he agreed. ‘Such a lovely girl.’

  Trish nodded. ‘Beautiful. With a lovely nature, too.’

  ‘Great legs.’

  ‘Oh, fantastic,' she said, with lessening enthusiasm for this conversation. Her suspicions were growing.

  ‘Fabulous blonde hair———’

  ‘ Yes! ’ she snapped.

  Adam’s grin told her that he’d teased her deliberately. He seemed very pleased with her reaction and she flushed, annoyed that she’d risen to his bait.

  ‘I gather from the expression on Lucy’s face when I en-quired,’ he remarked idly, ‘that Mrs Varsher was vile to her.’

  Instantly worried, Trish bit her lip. ‘I’ve got to do something about that,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘It's already in hand,’ he said, waiting till she’d run a puzzled glance over his black shirt and jeans, and the jacket slung Italian-style around his shoulders. To say nothing of the black curls cascading onto his forehead. At least he’d stopped short of a gold medallion, she thought, suddenly doubting his dress sense.

  ‘What are you up to?’ she asked, not sure that she liked him muscling in on her problems.

  ‘Tell me this, first. Is Mrs Varsher a TV engineer in her spare time?’

  ‘Don’t be silly! Of course not!’

  ‘Then why,’ Adam murmured, ‘do you think she was fiddling with the back of the TV set in her bedroom?

  ‘I’ve no idea!’ Almost immediately, one struck her. ‘You don‘t think——’

  ‘No. I don’t think. I know.' He took a pen from the dresser and scribbled something on a piece of paper, then tucked it in a cereal packet. ‘Play along with me,’ he said, a glittering light of battle in his eyes. ‘We’ll get rid of the woman without any trouble. Any chance of breakfast? I’m starving.'

  He’d finished his eggs and bacon and was well into his second round of toast when Mrs Varsher came down the stairs and stalked into the small conservatory.

  ‘ Buon giorno! ’ Adam called smoothly, with a highly continental wave of his hand.

  Trish came to a dead halt in the doorway, her own greeting dying on her lips as she watched Mrs Varsher deal with the lowering, narrow—eyed assessment coming from the rather menacing ‘Italian’. Then, as the woman muttered a wary ‘Morning!’, Trish twigged. Adam meant to be intimidating. Hastily, she closed her opened mouth, unpopped her eyes and assumed an air of normality.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Varsher? she trilled merrily.

  ‘It’s not!’ the woman snapped

  ‘ Momento, cara. ’ In a sinuous, snake-hipped movement which had both women goggling, Adam slid from his seat and came to Trish’s side. ‘My woman,’ he said, in a breathtaking knee-trembler accent, ‘she say...you not happy-'

  ‘I certainly am not!’ cried Mrs Varsher heatedly. ‘This morning—’

  ‘Ah! More things is wrong?’ Adam asked with silken menace, puffing out his chest.

  ‘Yes. They is. Are!’ The woman dragged her gaze from Adam and addressed Trish directly. ‘My television’s packed up. Nothing in this place works! It’s a disgrace! I don’t expect to pay for such bad service and appalling accommodation and hygiene—’

  ‘ Signora, ’ purred Adam in satin tones, ‘please to look in the box and to read to me what is in there.’ He pointed to the cereal packet.

  Irritably, the woman opened the top and drew out a piece of paper. ‘ ‘ ‘The Signora..." ’ She paused and shot a quick, mystified glance at Adam.

  ‘ Continuez. ’

  Trish jammed her lips together hard, hoping the woman would be so dazed by Adam’s scary scowl that she wouldn’t notice he’d wandered into the French language by mistake.

  Apparently she didn’t, because she turned back to the note and did as instructed. ‘ "...will pretend that the television in her bedroom..."’ Scarlet-faced, she read on silently, apparently too shocked to wonder why Adam could write, but not speak, perfect English. The note fluttered to the table. Her eyes swivelled to Adam’s.

  By this time he had left Trish’s side, his hands were on the table and he was bending forward, clearly simmering with righteous indignation.

  ‘I see you. I see what you do to the TV. My woman, she not happy. I not happy. ls bad,’ he snarled with a terrifyingly sinister hiss through his clenched teeth. He brought his face to within a few inches of Mrs Varsher’s. ‘You tell the lies. I do not like this. In my country, peoples like you have bad accidents. You unnerstand?’

  The woman nodded dumbly. She understood. Trish held her breath, thinking drily that people in his country had bad accents, too!

  ‘So,’ murmured Adam. ‘You go now. Huh? You pay what you owe and we say goodbye.’

  ‘I can’t! I—my cheque-book’s in my beauty box and...and the combination lock is jammed!’· stuttered Mrs Varsher.

  ‘Show me! I, Valentino Capelli, will rip it open with my bare hands!' Adam declared dramatically, all macho biceps and flashing teeth.

  Trish ran into the kitchen before she exposed their fraud by collapsing on the floor in peals of laughter. She choked her way into a towel, hearing Adam’s menacingly murmuring voice and Mrs Varsher’s increasingly high-pitched squeals. What was he doing——other than overacting?

  A while later, she heard them at the front door and peeped into the hallway. Adam’s dark, threatening bulk filled the opening. She crept up behind him and saw Mrs Varsher on the track to the quay, dragging along her heavy case, a dress bag, her vanity box and several carrier bags. It would be a long and tiring haul-but Trish didn’t care!

  Adam’s hand came up. Between his finger and thumb was a cheque.

  ‘Is good, no?’ he murmured.

  Despite herself, Trish began to laugh and so did he.

  ‘Peoples have bad accidents! Oh, Valentino Capelli!’

  ‘Eh, my woman, she happy?’ he said, in a terrible imitation of someone who’d been rightly rejected for apart in The Godfather.

  Trish just laughed till the tears rolled down her face.

  ‘You were hysterical! You ham! I wanted to burst out laughing! How did you stay so serious?’

  ‘Because it was serious, sweetheart,' he said, his grin fading
a little. ‘She was causing you grief. No one does that...and lives!’ he cried, reverting to his role for a ridiculously flamboyant moment. He’s so convincing, she thought with sudden bitterness. Charming, funny, utterly plausible. ‘Thanks,’ she saidgrudgingly. And added with cynical truth, ‘You were brilliant.’

  ‘Now,’ he said, catching her waist with both hands,

  ‘we’re alone. No more guests, Trish. You and me——’

  ‘It won’t stay like that for long!’ she said quickly, mov-ing away. ‘I have guests coming in soon. I need to earn a living.’

  ‘But, for now, we can be alone and see where our relationship takes us,’ he said persuasively. His voice lowered to a throaty caress. ‘So, cara! Where were we? Somewhere interesting, I’m sure-——’

  ‘No, Adam!’ But he was kissing her, stroking her lips with his tongue, and she felt the heat swirl and begin to overtake her again. Was sex all he wanted? she asked her—

  self distractedly as her mouth devoured his frantically. Whatever was she doing? Aghast, she pushed hard against his chest. ‘No! I can’t. I must see Tim!’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What for?’

  ‘To talk to him, About our relationship.'

  She was unnerved by the intensity of his expression. It was the tough-guy clothes, she told herself. Adam’s eyes glittered in his darkface. ‘You don’t love him!’ he declared.

  Jealousy, she thought. He wants to possess me utterly. It made her feel frightened. He would like to dominate her, rule her every movement, and destroy her independence. Love seemed so wonderful in films. The truth was that it made you feel as if you were balancing on the brink of a precipice with uncertainties nibbling away at the edge.

  ‘It’s taking you a long time to agree? he muttered. ‘Let me remind you of something...'

  His mouth was everywhere: her lips, face, throat, shoulders... Fierce and sweet, generating a terrible physical longing, it instantly brought the response he’d wanted. Her anguished groan. Her struggle against the acceptance of his hands, easing down her zip. Her treacherous desire to strain for a greater closeness.

  She lifted lids heavy with languor. His eyes were brilliant with a savage need, darker than she’d ever seen them. She felt her breasts being caressed and lifted, the stroke of his fingers across the agonisingly hard peaks.

  ‘Say you don’t love him!’ he whispered with a biting insistence.

  ‘I don’t!’ she gasped. ‘Please, Adam! Don’t... This isn’t fair!’

  ‘You want rules?’ he growled, bending his head and brushing her breasts with his mouth. ‘There aren’t any!’

  She shook with wanting. He shot her a look of such hunger that she felt as if her bones had melted. Then he was tugging at her nipple with his teeth, filling her with rocketing spasms which increased in urgency as he nursed at her breast with ecstasy in every line of his face. He couldn’t stop himself. Knew this wasn’t what he’d planned-that he’d meant to court her, make her fall for him, show her that his feelings involved more than sex, and thus remain in control. But again and again he had only to touch, kiss, think of making love to her, and his desire was unstoppable.

  It was hot. Too hot for clothes. He was kissing her, caressing her, shedding his shirt, drawing her dress from her incredible body. And then there she was: in just a pair of briefs, huge—eyed, scared but aroused and making every inch of his body feel alive.

  She was so lovely. Her skin glowed. Her hands were clutching at his hair, sweeping around the curve of his head. And now she was making urgent little cries which almost made him totally lose his head and take her there and then. oSomehow, God knew how, he stood there, skin to her skin, marvelling at the crashing of his heart and the helterskelter pounding of hers. Her mouth was doing wonderful things to his collar bone. Nibbling. Sucking. The sensuality of her body was driving him wild, inviting his hands to stroke and knead and torment in their turn. He knew that, until they had made love again, neither of them would be satisfied. There would be no sanity, no means of knowing if this was just lust or a deeper emotion. Yet he sensed that it would be more than a physical act, that he’d be pulled more securely into her web. And so he ought to be walking away for his own good.

  He groaned, catching at her, making her move against him as his mouth claimed hers. This headlong desire, this craving for her, to touch and taste and smell the warm scents of her body——these were alarming signs of his dependency on her. He’d always been in control of his life. Trish threatened to make him weak, to tug at his heartstrings. No! he thought, racked with pain. He couldn’t let that happen.

  ‘But...Adam,’ she moaned miserably. ‘We can’t.’

  He lifted his head. His senses reeled from the softness of her skin, the elusive perfume of her hair. But. Yes, there were a thousand ‘buts’. Before he lost all reason again, he took advantage of her doubts and thrust her back blindly. Breathing hard, he slowly began to focus his gaze. There was an angry darkness in her face, a rigidity about her slender, voluptuous body. Damp black curls clung to her forehead and he ruthlessly suppressed the urge to kiss each one.

  ‘But.’

  It seemed that she couldn’t get her breath and that it had caught in her throat. Several times she swallowed, and each time he wanted to take her in his arms and love her with all the passion in his imprisoned heart.

  ‘I——must-see Tim!’ Her liquefied blue eyes pleaded with his.

  ‘I agree. I suggest now would be a good time!’ he said curtly, bending, fumbling, and handing her the discarded dress with an accusing stare.

  Awkwardly she struggled into it. He didn’t help her, but bit his lip at the ache which came when her body was clothed again. Deprivation made his eyes glitter with hard lights.

  ‘Now isn’t possible. You can’t do what you want when you want here!’ she said jerkily. ‘I have to clear up. Breakfast things—’

  'The world won’t come to an end if you leave them!’ he said, hating himself for his savagery, knowing its source. Desire and fear. He was shaking. This was more than physical need or romantic love. It could be destructive, ripping apart his carefully constructed life—and he didn’t know how the hell to deal with the two opposing needs: the satisfaction of his senses versus survival.

  ‘I might as well,’ she said shortly, staring at a point somewhere over his bare shoulder. ‘There isn’t a boat till lunchtime.’

  ‘Damn this place!’ He could hear himself and couldn’t stop, The frustration was too much. ‘You’d think that living on an island would be total freedom. It’s not! It’s like being in a prison!’

  Trish flinched, the shudder rippling throughout her body. Cold as ice, she moved to pass him. And he let her. He had to examine his feelings. Cool down. Work out what the hell was happening to him. When he’d flown back after hearing how distressed she’d been without him, he’d been crazy with joy.

  He’d never imagined that he’d feel so threatened by the intensity of his emotions. Never in his whole life did he want to feel vulnerable again. And with Trish he was in danger of being just that.

  The sound of Trish stacking crockery came to his ears. He opened the front door and walked out into the sunshine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE dishes received a ferocious scrubbing. It was that or weep and Trish wasn’t the sort to buckle under. Damn him! she cursed. Angrily she scoured a spatula. He’d been furious when she’d stopped him making love to her. He’d neither cared for nor considered Louise and, be—

  cause of his sublime indifference to his commitment, Trish had almost been swept along by his passion again. A small tear welled up at the corner of her eye and she brushed it away impatiently. It was an obsession of Adam’s, this determination to seduce her. He was a dangerous philanderer with the morals of an alley cat. And he hated Bryher. Loathed its restrictions. He must go back to where he belonged.

  But all the while she cleaned and tidied, her body’s needs mocked her. She kept pausing, her eyes drowsy with memory: the sensatio
n of his lips closing around her swollen nipples, the warm smell of his hair and the hardness of his aroused bcdy...

  She was standing transfixed, her eyes dilated with sexual images, when he walked in. Her breathing quickened. They looked at one another, helpless and fevered in an instant. Matches to a flame.

  Sun gleamed on his head, giving it a sheen of polished ebony. She saw his brittle mouth, the tenseness of his jaw and clenched hands, and loathed herself because all she wanted to do was run to him and kiss his muscles into pliancy.

  Instead she meticulously arranged the tablecloth in her hand on the kitchen table and smoothed out non-existent wrinkles.

  ‘The boat’lI be at the Bar in half an hour,’ she said stiltedly.

  ‘The Bar?’ His brows met. ‘At the hotel?’

  ‘No.’

  Trish looked around the immaculate kitchen for something to do. There seemed to be nothing left to tidy, so she watered the geraniums on the window sill. Again. The excess water ran out of the saucer and overflowed onto the sill. She mopped it up irritably and saw he was waiting for a clarification of her remark.

  ‘When the tide’s low,’ she said in stilted tones, ‘the quay can’t be used. We use the long jetty—Anneka’s Quay—at the Bar.’

  ‘Trish,’ he said quietly, ‘I’d like to come. Not to see Tim, of course,’ he added quickly, seeing the protest forming on her lips. ‘To have a look round St Mary’s. Say hello to your grandmother.'

  ‘I can’t stop you from catching the boat and going wherever you like. I’m going to freshen up. I’ll show you where to go,’ she said stiffly, and fled.

  He sat alone in the prow of the Faldore staring sightlessly out to sea. Disturbed by his remote silence, she went into the pilot’s cabin and chatted with Ken, carefully fielding questions about the tall, dark and brooding stranger who’d accompanied her.

  They clambered up the steps to the quay on St Mary’s and walked without speaking towards the small town.