The Pleasures of Winter

by Evie Hunter

  She turned back to Tom Breslin, whose gentle features were belied by the intelligence in his steady gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Now where were we?’

  ‘You’re that Abbie Marshall, aren’t you? I didn’t realize that reporters lead such interesting lives. Crashing in a jungle, and now being pursued by Jack Winter.’ His smile took the sting out of his words. He had a Connecticut accent that reminded her of home.

  It was time to take the gloves off. ‘I’ve had enough excitement, thank you. But you had your adventures in Honduras as well, didn’t you? Why don’t we talk about your involvement with the DEA there? What was your impression of the country?’

  The music changed to something slower. Breslin took her into his arms and circled the small dance floor. He was a good dancer and although he held her close, there was still an air of impersonal politeness about him. ‘Such a poor country. I hope that American influence might help. We have to help stop the trans-shipment of drugs through there.’

  It was a stock answer, one he had clearly rehearsed and used many times before. She asked him more questions and he gradually loosened up.

  ‘How well do you know Antonio Tabora?’ she asked, just as the band started to play Horslips’ ‘Trouble’. It was a loud, rousing song and the dance floor was inundated with boisterous dancers.

  Breslin shook his head, frustrated. ‘It’s too noisy here. Why don’t we go for a walk outside? It’s quieter there and I’ll tell you all about Tabora.’

  She agreed, eager to get him to answer her questions. She was close, she knew it.

  Breslin led her down to the stable yard, where the snow had been cleared and night lights lit their way. The half doors on the stables were still open and a dozen horses poked their heads out, eager to see what was happening. Breslin led her through the yard to where a sports car was parked in front of the hayshed. ‘It’s cold out here. Get in and I’ll tell you about Tabora.’

  ‘I don’t think …’ Abbie stopped, uneasy. They were still close enough to the house that the music was audible, but it was dark and they were alone. The thin silk of her dress offered little protection against the biting wind. ‘Maybe we should go back to the house?’

  She tried to pull away, but Breslin had a firm hold on her elbow. He didn’t let go. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘You wanted to know about Tabora. I’m going to tell you. Now get into the car.’

  He unlocked it with a click, still holding her arm. Abbie’s journalistic instincts warred with her feminine ones. She didn’t want to be near anyone who wasn’t Jack but she needed this interview.

  The strength of her revulsion took her aback. Bloody Jack Winter – he had ruined her for other men. She couldn’t even sit in a car with someone to ask him questions. She was tougher than that. If she had to interview someone, she would do it.

  ‘Let me get my notebook,’ she said.

  ‘I have paper in the car, you can use that.’ His grip tightened, urging her further into the car.

  There was something wrong here. ‘No, I’d rather get my own notebook.’ She tried to move backwards, but Breslin prevented her. He pushed her on to the seat and closed the door.

  34

  ‘Take your hands off her,’ a furious, familiar voice snarled.

  Jack lunged out of the darkness and grabbed Breslin by his lapels. ‘When a woman says no, you should listen. Do you hear?’ He hauled him up so that he could look the smaller man in the eye. ‘She said she wants her own notebook.’

  Abbie scrambled out of the low-slung car and stared at Jack in astonishment.

  Breslin tried to pull away from Jack’s furious grip. ‘Let go of me. What are you still doing here? You were asked to leave.’

  ‘I’m looking after Abbie. Protecting her from scum like you. Just be grateful you didn’t touch anything but her arm. Next time you won’t be so lucky.’

  Jack dropped him and the American ran up the yard. He turned to Abbie. ‘What the hell were you doing out here with that loser? You’re mine.’

  The lights from the yard were faint, but enough for her to see the feral expression in his eyes. Jack was at the edge of his control, and something deep inside her exulted. She wanted more of that. ‘I’m yours? In your dreams.’

  He grabbed her and pulled her tightly against his chest. ‘In my dreams,’ he agreed, his voice dropping to a growl. ‘And in every waking minute too. You’re going to stay with me.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Abbie despised the breathy quality of her voice. She took a breath and firmed it. ‘Make me.’

  She felt the change in him when she threw down the challenge. His body hardened in a rush. ‘Why, you little brat!’

  She didn’t care. This time, they were playing by her rules.

  Jack lifted her off her feet and invaded her mouth. His lips were cold but his kiss was so hot it scalded her. There was no slow build-up, no gradual seduction. This was pure, raw passion, urgent and demanding. She wrapped her arms around his neck and opened to him. She slanted her mouth against his and opened wider, inviting him in.

  The taste was intoxicating and addictive. His mouth was furnace hot and it branded hers. Vaguely, she acknowledged that no other man would ever do for her after Jack, but now she didn’t care. She was too busy inciting him to further depredations. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, seizing control and dominating her. She nipped it sharply. Not enough to draw blood, just enough to make him aware that she had teeth and would use them.

  He growled and held her head still while he took possession of her lips and mouth and gave her no quarter. She didn’t want any; she gloried in his strength and determination. She met his hunger with a matching passion, squirming to get closer to him, to feel more of his glorious heat.

  All the anger and misery she had felt earlier had turned into flaming, passionate, unstoppable desire. Jack was hers, and no one would take him away from her. Not even Jack himself. She clung on to his shoulders and demanded that he keep kissing her.

  By the time he raised his head, he was panting and she felt boneless. If it weren’t for the steely arms around her, she would have tumbled to the icy ground. Somehow Jack knew. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing, checked around the yard and headed for the dark hayshed.

  The warm, heady smell of sweet hay was almost as enticing as the musky aroma of the man who held her so tightly to his chest. All her senses were on overdrive. Abbie took a deep breath as Jack lowered her along the length of his muscular body. She was no longer Abbie Marshall, reporter; she was a woman who hadn’t had her man in far too long.

  The hayshed was warm and dark, and there was no reason not to yank Jack’s clothes off. So she did. At her first grab, Jack stilled, but he allowed her to pull the jacket off over his shoulders and drag the shirt tails out of his trousers. She slid her hands underneath his shirt and hissed with pleasure at the heat of his skin. She skimmed up along his ribs, enjoying the way he twitched when her fingertips tickled him and tangled in the hair on his chest. When she reached his nipples and pinched, he lost control.

  Jack grabbed her head, holding her still for his voracious kiss then his hands ravaged her body. He moulded it as if he owned it, caressing her ass and her stomach and breasts through the silk of Barbara’s antique dress.

  ‘More,’ he growled, barely lifting his head from her mouth. He pulled up the silky cloth until his hand was on her bare thigh. She shuddered from the contrast of his hot hand and the chill of the winter air on her skin.

  ‘Cold,’ she managed.

  ‘Not for long.’ He dragged the material up to her waist and pulled her tightly against his erection.

  Her mouth dried. Had he always been that big? To hell with it, she didn’t care if it had grown while she was away. She put her hand down to his crotch, grabbed his straining shaft and watched Jack’s eyes roll back in his head. ‘Oh yes, the big bad Dom has a weak spot, and I’m holding it in my hand.’

  ‘Keep that up, and you’ll see what my hand
can do.’

  She laughed, taunting him. ‘Bring it on.’

  ‘What an excellent idea.’ With deliberate fingers that shook only slightly, Jack undid his trouser buttons, pulled down the zip and pushed them off his narrow hips.

  Her breath shortened as she looked at the impressive cock which was pointing straight at her. God, she wanted to feel that inside her again. But Jack deserved a little more torture. ‘You know the old Chinese expression?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Woman with skirt up can run faster than man with trousers down.’ With that, she whirled and raced for the door of the barn. But she had only taken a few steps before a weight crashed into her from behind and Jack tackled her to the hay-covered floor.

  ‘You didn’t run fast enough. Now you pay.’

  ‘Oh shut up, you’re not a Bond villain,’ she said, and grabbed his head to kiss him. This was a meeting of equals, both as strong, both as hungry as each other. She held on to him with arms and legs, preventing him getting away from her. He took over the kiss, blasting away any lingering reservations she might have had.

  She gloried in the coarse silk of his hair, pushing her hands through it while he strung biting kisses down her neck and along her collarbone.

  Jack’s hands were busy, stripping away her panties in one ruthless movement and taking ownership of the heat between her restless thighs.

  ‘Still smooth. Good girl,’ he said, and something inside her melted.

  Oh god, the things he could do to her with those words. But she had no intention of letting him know. ‘I’m not a good girl, I’m very bad,’ she said, and pushed herself on top of him. He lay on his back in the hay while she straddled him. She didn’t want to wait. She was hot and wet and hungry, so she rose up on her knees, positioned him carefully and slid down on his cock. ‘Ahh!’ The sensation of him filling her, completing her, was so exquisite that she felt as if part of her brain had short-circuited. Just remembering how to breathe took all her concentration.

  Then he pulled her down to kiss her and she forgot that too. Who needed to breathe when she had Jack? She wanted this to last, but the feel of him was too much to bear. Her hips were moving without any instruction from her.

  ‘Slower,’ Jack said, but she couldn’t stop. He rolled her over so that the hay was prickly under her buttocks, then he held her ass in his hands while he drove into her again and again. With each overwhelming lunge, her nerve endings wound tighter and tighter until she could not think, only feel and react.

  She was aware that she was making noises – loud, primitive noises that echoed through the barn. Jack loved it. ‘Shush, you’ll scare the horses.’ He put his hand over her mouth to silence her.

  Abbie bit it. She hadn’t planned to, but she had no control left. She needed him to move faster and urged him on with heels and nails and teeth. Finally, finally, Jack moved faster, speeding up until she became one continuous mass of breathless ecstasy, unable to form any word except ‘Jack’.

  It was too much, too overwhelming, and with a last scream and a fizz of delight, she fell into a shuddering climax. Jack gave three more thrusts and followed her over.

  They lay there, panting, while they tried to collect themselves. Finally Jack raised his head. ‘Do you know that you’re still wearing that feathery headdress? And I have plans for it.’

  She ran her hand down his back. ‘Nothing like the plans I have for this body. I’m going to have you on your knees, begging.’

  He frowned, the euphoria gone. ‘Are you mad? I’m the Dom.’

  ‘You’re the Dom who screwed up. You want me, you’re going to have to beg.’ Abbie pushed him away, climbed to her unsteady feet and began straightening her clothes.

  She was on her way up the yard when Jack called. ‘Do you know you’ve got hay on your back and in your hair?’

  She turned to tell him where to go, but he was already gone.

  Abbie stomped back to the house, trailing hay behind her. Nothing had changed. Jack was still an arrogant Dom and she was still crazy about him. As she reached the house, she saw Tom Breslin drive away in a Porsche Carrera. If she couldn’t get the truth from him, perhaps the ambassador could.

  In the small downstairs cloakroom, she repaired her hair and clothes as much as she could. At some point during her interlude with Jack, she had lost one of the feathers from the headdress. She removed the other one with shaking fingers. It was time to talk to Chris Warrington.

  The ambassador’s sceptical expression turned serious when she showed him some of the files on her laptop. Murders, gang warfare, drug running, all organized by Tabora. She outlined Tabora’s connection with Breslin and finished with the question: how could a middle-ranking diplomat afford a $250,000 car?

  When they finished talking, she was shattered. Breslin was going to get a very early wake-up call and she would get her exclusive: Warrington Exposes Corruption in State Department. Not a bad night’s work, but she still had to deal with Jack and she hadn’t seen him since the stables. She refused Barbara’s offer of a nightcap and headed to her room.

  The lamp was on and Jack was lying in the middle of her bed. His jacket and tie hung over the back of a chair and his dress shirt was open at the neck, exposing several inches of tanned flesh. How could he be that handsome and unattainable? ‘I suggest you put your jacket back on, it’s cold outside.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Jack patted the bed beside him. ‘Why don’t we talk?’

  Abbie began to remove her make-up. ‘Talk about what? About how I’m a good little subbie? About how much fun we’ll have together back in the States? Sorry. The answer is no.’

  For the first time that evening, he looked uncertain. ‘Abbie, I’m not good at this.’

  ‘At what? Relationships? Well, doesn’t that suck? You said sane, safe and consensual. So far, so good. You also promised honesty, but so far I haven’t seen a lot of it. OK, why don’t I start?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m in love with you, Jack. But it’s not enough.’

  His mouth firmed into a thin line. He was closing up. Jack was slipping away from her.

  ‘What’s the matter? Too much honesty?’ She wiped away the remains of her mascara with a tissue. Then she met his eyes in the mirror.

  ‘Jack Winter isn’t enough. I want Michael Delaney too. Not half a man who’s running from his past.’

  She held her breath, waiting. The seconds ticked by in the stillness of her bedroom. There was no tender kiss, no reconciliation, no words of love. Just Jack, battling his inner demons.

  He reached for her hand. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking. It’s too much.’

  Abbie closed her eyes. She had done it. Laid her cards on the table, told him what she wanted, but Jack couldn’t or wouldn’t connect with her. He was still the same closed-off Jack he had been from the very start.

  ‘Then I want you to leave.’

  She didn’t move until she heard the soft click as the door closed behind him. When she opened her eyes again, she was alone. This time it was really over.

  35

  There were only two seasons in Ireland, Abbie decided as she packed her bags. Rainy and cold or rainy and not-so-cold. The first stirrings of spring were making her homesick. She missed New York and her family. It had been wonderful to have some time to start writing the novel she had always planned, but Josh was screaming for her to come home and work for the paper. It was time to pick up the pieces and move on.

  Tucked between her clothes was her ‘Jack’ box with the small fragments she’d collected during their time together: a paper napkin from the ice cream parlour in Pasadena, a feather from the night he’d spent in her apartment, a tiny pressed orchid from Honduras. The flotsam of their relationship that she’d held on to when she fled to Ireland. It pretty much summed them up, but there wasn’t a lot to show for five months of her life.

  The bedroom door opened and Nesbitt pushed his way in. She ruffled his thick coat. She would miss her cani
ne confidants. They had borne the brunt of the second Jack Winter meltdown. Barbara had fielded the phone call the day after the hunt ball and told him that Abbie had returned home. Since then, there had been no word. Not a single shred of gossip to feed her aching need of him. He hadn’t returned to New York or LA, and according to his website, there were no scheduled appearances.

  The African Queen saga continued. Jack’s replacement as Charlie – for it leaked out that he had originally been cast in the part – broke his arm on the first day of shooting. Maria Richards had pulled out due to an unexpected pregnancy.

  ‘What did I tell you about being upstairs? Get out of there,’ Barbara shouted as Nesbitt ran past her. Barbara handed Abbie a newspaper. ‘There’s something in there you might want to read.’

  Automatically, Abbie turned to the news section but Barbara snatched back the paper and flicked on to the entertainment section. ‘Look at this,’ she said, pointing to the ‘On the Town’ column.

  TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO THE STAGE FOR JACK WINTER

  In what must surely be Dublin’s best-kept secret for many years, last night the newly opened Barry Theatre scored an impressive coup in featuring a surprise appearance by Hollywood leading man Jack Winter in its first production, Brian Friel’s Faith Healer. Producer Jonathan Wilde later revealed that he had persuaded his old friend to tread the boards again on condition of absolute secrecy. ‘It was a hell of a challenge keeping it under wraps,’ Wilde said at the after party, ‘but Jack has been through a difficult time and the rest of the cast and the whole team were determined that someone of his genius would get the chance to remind people what he does best. He was a pleasure to work with and won everybody over with his craft and his dedication.’

  Better known for his roles in Hollywood action movies, Winter played the part of hard-drinking, egocentric Frank Hardy with a depth of anger and anguish that was almost painful to watch. His final soliloquy had the audience on the edge of their seats. It is an astonishing return to the stage by an actor who was last seen in Dublin while still a student. Back then he was tipped to be one of the leading actors of his generation and many considered his global success as a film actor to be the greatest loss to theatre since Richard Burton.