Falling back with a gasp, she stared at him wide-eyed, the lamp casting the shadow of her long lashes on to her cheeks.
His face looked set and grim, and, dropping the facade of anger, she whispered, 'Please, Blaze, let me get up.'
"That's better,' he observed with satisfaction. 'I like a woman to have some spirit, but I also like her to have some manners.'
'I—I'm sorry... I was...'
'Scared?'
Her silence was answer enough.
'There's no need to be.'
"Thank the Lord for that,' she exclaimed fervently.
He laughed, breaking the tension.
Relaxing a fraction, she asked carefully, 'Please will you let me get up?'
'When I'm good and ready.' Seeing her lose colour, he added, 'Don't worry, I promise I'm not planning to ravish you while your fiancé's back's turned.'
Her lashes flickered. "Then what are you planning?'
'Just to collect on the bet I won.'
She found herself begging, 'Please don't kiss me.'
'I wasn't going to,' he said coolly. 'The bet was that if Varley wasn't back you would kiss me.'
'Making that kind of bet is childish,' she muttered.
'Strange, I hadn't figured you as a welsher.'
Seeing, by his calm air of purpose, that he had no intention of letting her get away with it, she gave in. 'All right... But I'd like to sit up first'
'You feel safer that way?'
Ignoring the taunt, she began to push herself upright.
This time he let her.
When they were face to face she hesitated, half hoping he would make the first move, but he just waited quietly.
She found herself looking at his firm, beautifully chiselled mouth. The top lip was a shade austere, the bottom one fuller, with a touch of sensuality.
It had always made butterflies flutter in her stomach. They were doing it now.
But she didn't need to kiss his mouth.
Tearing her eyes away, and telling herself she must get it over with, she leaned forward and kissed him.
She had meant to lightly brush his cheek, but without conscious volition her lips found his and lingered, unable to move away.
For a second or two he sat quiescent, then his own lips parted in response, deepening the kiss, adding fire and excitement and a drugging sweetness.
Her eyes closed and her arms went around his neck.
One of his hands moved to cup her nape, while the other found the curve of her breast and lovingly coaxed the nipple into life, before grazing over her slim waist, hip and thigh.
When he slipped the thin straps from her shoulders and eased down the bodice of her dress, she made no effort to prevent him.
Indeed, she would have helped him had it been necessary. But he was both experienced and skilful, with a touch that was as sure as it was delicate.
She was lying down now, her eyes tightly closed, shuddering as his lips explored the warm swell of her breasts.
There was nothing in the world but this man, and the way he was making her feel. She waited in an agony of need until his mouth closed on one waiting peak, causing needle-sharp stabs of ecstasy, a delight so pure it was almost pain.
At the same time his hand was stroking the warm silky skin of her inner thigh, slowly but surely travelling higher, making a pool of liquid heat form in the pit of her stomach.
A leisurely, unhurried lover, he had in the past made her wait, wringing from her sensations so exquisite that she had thought she could feel no more. Only to find, in the final act of love, that they had been merely the prelude...
When those questing fingers found the smooth satin of her briefs she gave a little murmur, a cross between a moan and a sigh.
He paused and drew back.
For an endless moment she waited, then she felt the mattress spring into place as his weight lifted from the edge. Dimly she realised he would be stripping off his clothes so he could join her.
It took a little while to dawn on her that there was no sound, no movement, just utter stillness.
Dazed and unbelieving, she opened her eyes to find he was still fully dressed, standing motionless, staring down at her, his face in shadow.
'About time to call a halt, I think...' His voice sounded cool, almost casual, but his quickened breathing suggested that he wasn't quite as unmoved as he was making out 'Otherwise I'll end up doing what I promised I wouldn't do...'
His words were like a deluge of icy water. Feeling sick, she sat up and dragged her bodice into place with unsteady hands.
He walked to the door and, his hand on the knob, turned to say, 'If Varley arrives in the next half-hour shall I send him along?'
She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
'I'm sorry,' he apologised immediately. 'That was unnecessarily cruel.'
A second later the door clicked to behind him.
Trembling all over, full of conflicting emotions, the chief of which was shame, she struggled to her feet and hobbled into the bathroom.
While she cleaned her teeth and prepared for bed with hands that shook so much they could hardly complete their task, she mentally flayed herself.
How could she have behaved like that? How could she have forgotten they were both engaged to marry someone else?
But she had. Rings and promises, rights and wrongs, other people had simply ceased to exist. The only thing that had mattered in the whole world had been him... Feeling his mouth on hers, his touch on her eager body...
If only he hadn't carried her upstairs... If only he hadn't insisted on her kissing him...
No, there was no way she could lay the blame at his door. If she had just kissed him with cool dismissiveness, he would have left it at that...
But she hadn't. She had kissed him with a longing that must have been manifest. She had been the instigator, and if he hadn't drawn back when he had she would have been guilty of sleeping with another woman's fiancé. And this time she couldn't say she hadn't known.
She would also have been guilty of cheating on her own fiancé...
Loving Kirk, as she did, how could she have wanted Blaze so much? Was she really so sex-starved? she wondered bitterly, until a little voice reminded her that what she had shared with Blaze in the past had never been just sex. She had loved him.
Now she loved Kirk.
Or did she? If she really loved him, how was it Blaze still had so much power over her?
As though the scales had fallen from her eyes she saw that if she had thought herself in love it had been with love itself, rather than with Kirk.
He was the first man, since Blaze, who had attracted her, and she had practically willed herself to love him.
She was almost twenty-seven. Perhaps her biological clock had been to blame, urging her to marry the first prepossessing male who came along, so enabling her to have the family she'd always wanted while she was still young.
Kirk was handsome and intelligent, considerate and charming, everything a woman could ask for in a husband. But she knew with a sudden clear insight that if he turned his back on her tomorrow he wouldn't break her heart, as Blaze had done.
Blaze had been her first love. Her only love. His mouth against hers like a drink of fresh water to someone dying of thirst. Her mouth against his a reaffirmation of her love, a love that had never really died.
The implications of that simple fact made her feel hollow inside as she closed the bathroom door behind her and climbed into bed.
Blaze would doubtless go ahead as planned and marry Melinda Ross, but, aware of her true feelings, there was no way she could marry Kirk.
Lifting her hand, she looked at the ring he had slipped on to her finger. The ring Blaze had jeered at. The ring she had been so pleased with.
Then, knowing she couldn't go on wearing it, she took it off without a single pang of regret and put it on the bedside table.
When this weekend was over, instead of moving in with him she would have to find some other
place to live, and in all probability another job. She couldn't imagine that he would want her around the place after she had broken their engagement
Fate was strange. If Blaze hadn't invited them to Balantyne Hall, and Kirk hadn't insisted on accepting, none of this would have happened.
She would have continued to believe herself in love and been happy to look forward to a safe, settled future.
As it was, her whole life had been turned topsy-turvy, leaving her desolate and homeless, like the victim of some disaster.
For the second time in three years.
And from the same cause.
Still, she was a survivor, she told herself with a flash of spirit. She had rebuilt her life once. She could do it again.
But there wasn't only herself to take into account this time, she realised, reaching to switch off the bedside lamp. There was Kirk. How much would breaking their engagement upset him?
Not overmuch, if the "stories of other women in his life had a grain of truth in them.
No, of course they hadn't. She just couldn't believe it.
From some of the things Blaze himself had admitted the detective agency had proved to be inefficient, to say the least. In all probability they had been investigating the wrong man.
And following the wrong man? Could they really have bungled the job so badly? The description had fitted to perfection...
But if it had been Kirk why had he changed his mind about going to Amsterdam? And if he had changed his mind, why hadn't he let her know? Why had he allowed her to wait for him at the airport? And why had he left that sketchy message at the information desk?
There were so many questions. All of which would have to remain unanswered, at least until Kirk himself turned up.
Which immediately posed a further set of questions. Where could he have got to? What was keeping him? Why hadn't he been in touch?
So many strange things had happened, including the theft of her handbag. Could that really have been carefully planned, as Blaze had suggested...?
Doing her best to push away the futile questions crowding in, Fran closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But, though weary, her brain refused to switch off.
It was dawn before she finally slipped into an uneasy doze, and her last unhappy thought was of Blaze. He was going to marry a woman he didn't love and who didn't love him, a woman who had made it plain that she had no intention of having his children...
* * * * *
A tap on the door disturbed her. Still half asleep, she called, 'Who is it?'
'Hannah, miss.'
'Come in.' Endeavouring to pull herself together, Fran struggled into a sitting position as the young maid carried in a tray of tea.
Putting the tray down on the bedside table, Hannah went to draw back the curtains.
The sky looked heavy, and the air coming through the open windows was as hot and humid as ever. Low on the horizon a bank of dark thunderclouds warned of an impending storm.
Wondering if it could be an omen, Fran shivered.
Peering blearily at her watch, she saw the hands stood at twelve fifteen. 'Good heavens!' she exclaimed. 'Is it really that time? Why didn't you wake me sooner?'
"The master gave instructions that if you seemed to be sleeping you weren't to be disturbed before noon, miss.'
'Is Mr Varley here yet, do you know?'
'No, miss, there've been no visitors.'
'What about Miss Ross? Has she arrived?'
'No, miss.'
With a growing feeling of hopelessness, Fran asked, 'Have there been any messages?'
'Not that I know of, miss.'
It seemed that nothing had changed, Fran thought almost despairingly.
'But Mr Mortimer would be the one to ask... Will that be all, miss?'
'Yes, thank you, Hannah.'
When the door had closed behind the maid, Fran poured herself some tea and drank it gratefully.
Despite sleeping late she felt headachy and unrefreshed, unwilling to face yet more waiting.
There was a phone at the bedside, and, picking up the receiver, she tapped in the number of Kirk's apartment, only to get the answering machine.
But what else had she expected? she asked herself crossly. She hadn't imagined for one minute that he'd actually be sitting at home. It was just a case of leaving no stone unturned.
Her next and only hope was William Bailey. He lived in the small flat above Varley's business premises, and had done since Kirk's father died. If there had been an accident of some kind he might be the one to know.
'William Bailey...' He answered on the third ring, in the dry, precise way she knew of old.
'William, it's Francesca Holt...'
Her good temper and pleasant manners had made her a firm favourite, and his tone was avuncular as he asked, 'What can I do for you, Francesca, my dear?'
'Have you heard anything of Kirk, by any chance?'
'I had a call from him first thing this morning.'
'Do you know where he is?' she asked eagerly.
Sounding puzzled, William said, 'I thought he was at Balantyne Hall with you.'
'No, he...he was held up and hasn't arrived yet. I wondered if he might have had an accident.'
'He sounded fine when I spoke to him.'
'What did he say?'
'Only that he looked like being away longer than he'd anticipated, and he wanted me to take charge of everything until I heard from him again.' Then, with sudden anxiety, 'Is there something wrong? You are at Balantyne Hall?'
'Yes.'
'And you've delivered the package safely?'
'Yes.'
She heard his sigh of relief, before he asked, 'But surely Kirk's been in touch with you?'
Remembering what the maid had said about Mortimer being the one to ask about messages, she said, 'It's all right, he's probably left a message. I'm sorry to have bothered you.'
'It was no bother, my dear. Have a pleasant weekend.'
CHAPTER FIVE
FRAN got out of bed, and, finding her ankle was a great deal better, headed for the bathroom, her thoughts racing.
If Kirk had told William that he might be away longer than he'd anticipated, something totally unexpected must have cropped up. Something of importance.
But what could have been of more importance than the safe delivery of the necklace and the weekend at Balantyne Hall?
Though she was very relieved that Kirk was at least safe, and not lying badly injured in some hospital, she was starting to feel annoyed and resentful that he hadn't let her know what was happening.
Unless there was a message.
Or perhaps by now he'd talked to Blaze?
As quickly as possible, she showered, put on a light cotton dress and a pair of low-heeled sandals, and, leaving her hair loose around her shoulders, made her way down the stairs.
Just as she reached the bottom, the butler appeared and enquired gravely, 'I trust the ankle is somewhat improved today, miss?'
She smiled at him. 'Much improved, thank you, Mortimer.'
'I'm pleased to hear you say so, miss.'
'Is there a message for me, from Mr Varley?'
'No, miss.'
'But he did phone?'
'Not to my knowledge, miss. Unless the master took the call.'
"Thank you, Mortimer. I'll ask him.'
"That won't be possible at the moment, miss. The master went out shortly after breakfast.'
Blaze knew quite well how worried and anxious she'd been; if he had heard from Kirk she couldn't believe that he would have left the house without setting her mind at rest.
Her silky brows drawing together in a frown, she asked, 'Do you happen to know where he went?'
'I understand he was going to town, miss.'
No doubt to find out what had delayed Melinda Ross. 'Did he say when he'd be home?'
'No, miss. He did say, however, that if he wasn't back for one o'clock you were to go ahead and have lunch without him.'
At that
precise moment the grandfather clock whirred self-importantly and struck one.
'As it appears that you'll be lunching alone,' the butler went on in measured tones, 'if you would prefer to have lunch on the terrace, rather than in the dining room...?'
Neither prospect appealed.
Convinced now that, for whatever reason, Kirk wasn't going to come, and unable to bear the thought of just waiting around until Blaze and his fiancée returned, Fran found herself suddenly desperate to get away.
Her job was done. She had delivered the necklace, so what was there to stay for? Certainly not the party. It would be a form of torture to stand by and watch Blaze with his arm around Melinda Ross, introducing her as his bride-to-be.
And in the circumstances it was hardly fair to the other woman. If Melinda had had the faintest idea that in the past she and Blaze had been lovers, she would never have been invited.
Making up her mind in a rush, Fran said steadily, "Thank you, Mortimer, but I won't be staying for lunch. While I go up and pack my things, perhaps you'll be kind enough to—'
Recalling the theft of her bag, she stopped speaking abruptly. Oh, Lord, what on earth was she to do? She had no money and no credit cards.
There was money in her bank account, of course, but it was Saturday; the banks would be closed and -her bank cards had disappeared along with everything else.
To add to her troubles, expecting to fly back with Kirk she had booked only a one-way ticket, so she had no means of getting back to Manchester.
And no home to go to if she got there.
She resolutely pushed that less than comforting thought away.
If she could get to London and book into a hotel for the night she could always explain the situation to William Bailey, and ask for his help.
'I'm sorry,' she said to the butler, who, head slightly bent, was waiting patiently. 'I was going to ask you to call me a taxi, but on the way here I had my bag stolen.'
"The master mentioned it,' Mortimer informed her gravely. 'It must have been very distressing, miss.'
'It's proving to be very inconvenient,' she remarked with feeling. Then, taking the bull by the horns, 'Mortimer, could you possibly lend me the taxi fare to London?'
For the first time the butler appeared discomfited. Clearing his throat, he assured her, 'I would have been happy to, miss, had the master not issued specific instructions to the contrary.'
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