‘And make it easy for me.’ Jake was taking her hand to his mouth. She felt his lips on the sensitive skin of her palm. ‘You know it’s what I want above everything.’
For a moment the blood sang in her veins. She allowed her defences to weaken, allowed herself to think of the possibilities—for, of course, to a certain extent he was right. She could, if she so decided, wait a little longer—her company was unlikely to cut up rough over a few extra days, which was all she would require.
It would be possible for her to go on enjoying his companionship, nothing else. She could even absorb a little more of what could so easily have been her native culture—it was her birthright when all was said and done.
And even if a little flirtation should creep in—she was too honest to deny that possibility completely—then she would see it was a mild, low-level affair. She had had plenty of experience of that over the years. There would be no strings, no one need be hurt, and at the end they could part with tender memories...
‘Ginny...’ When he spoke she realised that he was still holding her hand, that she seemed unable to find the strength to pull it away. At the same time she registered the expression in his eyes, recognised his carefully controlled desire—and the wild flare of her own responses which had to be instantly doused.
Dread rose in her like a choking gag. She had no idea how long she would be able to...
‘Jake.’ She smiled with an insincerity which hurt almost as much as sliding her hand from his. ‘I’ve already said I would love to stay and, if you ask me, then I could easily be persuaded to come back when I have more time—next year perhaps. But...right now, I must get back to work and...’ The words almost stuck in her throat. ‘And to my life in London.’
In that instant Jake’s eyes appeared to change colour, from that wonderful clear violet to a dark and more menacing shade, full of sombre forebodings, and inducing a shudder in the region of her spine.
But relief came from an unexpected quarter—one that was more than welcome from Ginny’s point of view. She looked up and saw the Colonel.
‘Miss Virginia.’ He gave a faint bow and turned to Jake. ‘M’boy, I was wondering if your parents got off safely.’
‘Ah.’ Jake rose, his manners instinctive, and Ginny saw that the look of cold, bleak anger had gone. His manner was cool, calm and quite normal. ‘Yes, they should be well on their way now. I expect a call in the morning before they sail.’
‘I’ve arranged flowers for their stateroom.’
‘Very kind of you, sir. Will you join us?’
‘No, my boy, I shan’t intrude, but—’
But just then Bonnie appeared behind Jake, her arm snaking about his waist.
‘Jake, honey, remember this tune? I specially asked them to play it so I could ask you to dance with me.’ Pouting delightfully, she turned her searchlight smile on Ginny. ‘You will forgive me for stealing him away, Miss...?’
‘Of course.’ How chilly and disapproving and middle-aged she sounded—and how much more subtle to have hidden her feelings.
‘Bonnie, I—’ Jake began.
‘Go on, my boy,’ the Colonel interrupted. ‘I shall be delighted to keep Miss Ginny company while you dance with this child.’ And a moment later Jake was moving round the tiny dance floor to some smoochy number Ginny couldn’t place, and she was only half listening to what her companion was saying.
‘...a very old Virginian family—they have a huge spread next to Marion’s. In fact—’ he lowered his voice confidentially, his eyes twinkling, ‘—I believe Eugene—Bonnie’s father, that is—he and Marion at one time... But then she met Hugo and that was that...’
His words percolated slowly. Refusing to focus on Jake and Bonnie, Ginny was watching the couple next but one on the dance floor, but when the Colonel’s words had snapped into place she smiled cynically.
‘Yes.’ Her manner was forced. ‘Yes, I can imagine. She met Hugo and...that was that.’ About to make an excuse and go to the powder room, she was stopped by the look of frowning frustration in the Colonel’s eyes.
‘It’s that same feeling, darn it.’ He shook his head with practised charm. ‘That fleeting likeness I can’t place.’
‘Oh.’ Ginny subsided onto her seat, her smile becoming more fixed as she wondered how to deflect his interest. ‘But you’ve known so many women, Colonel—or so I’m told! Maybe one or two of us look alike.’ She kept her tone light and teasing.
‘Mmm. You may be right, but... I don’t think it’s that, not exactly.’
‘Well, as I said before, I know we have never met before.’ Determined to make her break now, she pushed back her chair. ‘I’d have remembered. Now, please would you excuse me for a moment...?’ And she made her escape.
In the Ladies’ room she studied her reflection with a worried expression. Was there a chance, that her mother and the Colonel had met? Or had he, perhaps, seen her photograph? He might have been in Hugo’s confidence. Or was he merely picking up that elusive resemblance to Hugo which she had been aware of last night?
Oh, God! It was so confusing, so worrying, and now, gazing at her reflection with concentrated intensity, she could find nothing to give a clue either way. Huge luminous eyes stared back... If the Colonel could see something, why not others?
She picked up her bag and turned away with a feeling of despair. She was examining an unremarkable print in the corridor when she saw Jake waiting in the empty foyer.
‘I’m sorry about that!’
‘Oh, Jake!’ She affected surprise. She determined to be cool, uninvolved—if only he would help. ‘Sorry?’ She gave a tiny frown while puzzled brown eyes searched his. ‘But why on earth should you apologise?’
‘You know why.’ And he turned her so they were facing in the same direction, his hand sliding the length of her inner arm till his fingers found hers and they linked. ‘Because I would much rather have danced with you.’
‘Oh, come on.’ The tone of light reproof successfully concealed her disturbed feelings. Just the pressure of his arm on hers, the touch of his fingers, and every plan, every strategy... ‘No man could ever be sorry to have danced with Bonnie,’ she continued, in a spirit of self-mutilation. ‘You made a very striking couple. I think everyone who saw you would agree.’
‘Look.’ There was now a touch of repressed fury in his voice as they came face to face with themselves in the darkened glass. ‘Look, damn you. Now that is what I would call a very striking couple.’
For a long fraught moment they stood there, each glaring at the other before some of the tension seemed to ease from him and her breathing began to slow.
‘And now...’ His voice softened. ‘Now, Miss Ginny Browne, of Brockway and Laffan in the City of London...’ His lips were beginning to curve. ‘Will you do me the honour of having the next dance with me?’
The last time she had tried to tango was when she’d been about seventeen, when her father, in a short-lived protest against what he called ‘non-music’ and ‘non-dancing’, had decided she ought to be educated. Several old records had been unearthed and they had spent some hilarious afternoons with Mantovani.
But dancing a tango in these circumstances, and with Jake Vanbrugh, was something different—a kind of enchantment. They moved in smooth unison to the sensuous, throbbing music. His cheek was against her hair and from time to time she felt the faint graze of his chin against her cheek. Such an inexplicable, bewilderingly exciting sensation.
When the music stopped, they stood for a moment, hands still linked, eyes searching. Ginny heard her heart beating wildly against her ribs. And then his arm came about her waist and he was hurrying her along a path to a little gazebo, overgrown and sheltered from other guests.
There he kissed her. With one finger he tipped back her head and their mouths touched. Just that. It was slow and trembling and perfect. And it set her pulses ablaze.
‘Shall...?’ A trailing finger brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, violet eyes gleamed. �
��Shall we go?’
She nodded. Just once. And, hands entwined, stopping every few yards to touch and to taste, they made their way slowly, purposefully, to the car.
He came round to open the door for her when they pulled up in front of the house, and she slid out and stood beside him, looking up into his face, all the strong planes of it shadowy in the moonlight. Jake touched her cheek, his fingers brushing the skin, causing ripples of emotion she had never known. Her lips parted on a sigh of invitation as old as Eve herself.
Even before his mouth took control she had lost all desire to resist, had succumbed to the sheer joy of her own feelings—his co-operation adding an intense edge to this experience.
Inside, the hall was dim and cool and quiet, the only sound the ticking of a grandfather clock in the far corner and perhaps the rapid tattoo of her own heart. She clung to him as he took her, one slow step at a time, up the curving stairway, her arms twined about his neck, her mouth seeking his—all reservations obliterated, forgotten.
‘Ginny.’ They had reached her bedroom—one pink-shaded lamp glowed softly in a corner, the bed, wide and inviting, dominated the room. Jake’s hands cupped her face—he gazed as if he could never have enough. ‘Ginny, the moment I saw you...’
‘Jake...’ She was beginning to understand what it must mean to be under the influence of some powerful drug. It must be like this—such unreality, such a sense of euphoria, of a wondering excitement which invaded every inch of her. Resistance was no longer part of her game plan—instead, every precocious notion, every dream she had ever had, would come into play.
‘Jake.’ In the meantime the pleasure in simply repeating his name was intense, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him into still closer contact, and...
‘The moment I saw you...’ His mouth trailed kisses the length of her cheek, spoke against the corner of her mouth. ‘I wanted you—and I shall go on wanting you...’
The words should have been a warning but she was too intoxicated, too hypnotised. There was one thing she wanted—to be closer to him, without any analysis of what that meant. Simply, that this journey was leading to a goal she was at last beginning to understand.
She gave a moan, a shudder, as she slid her fingers inside his jacket. There was a moment of impatience as he shrugged the garment from his shoulders, pulled off his tie, undid his shirt. And then it was all so simple, so easy—a tiny tug at the zipper at her back and he slid the figure-hugging top to her waist, pulled it from her skirt and tossed it away.
‘Look.’ His voice was ragged, his touch sheer magic, but he turned her round so she was forced to see herself in the mirror. A young woman, naked to the waist but for her grandmother’s choker, with hair which had been pinned up beginning to collapse about her face.
If an artist had planned an arousing picture he could scarcely have improved things. A demure yet knowing child, mouth bruised and swollen with kissing, eyes brown and limpid. And in the background the tall, powerful man—and he was touching her, expressing some of the wonder they were sharing.
Suddenly shy, she turned and laid her cheek against his chest, rubbing at the triangle of dark hair.
‘Don’t!’ It was a laughing, tortured contradictory plea. ‘Don’t do that... I want to see you and...do you know what you’re doing to me?’
She didn’t. She knew only what was happening to her—rejoiced that he was part of it, that he was making her life so wonderful, that she had no wish to escape...
They were lying on the bed. She felt light, teasing kisses on her face, her eyes, her mouth. Until suddenly he grew serious, pushed her back against the pillows and spoke with powerful intensity. ‘I want to make love to you for the rest of my life.’
Something reminded her—afterwards it was impossible for her to decide what. Maybe it was his absolute conviction, the implication of long-term commitment... An innocent flirtation, she had decided, no strings... And here they were, on the brink...
Terror struck. She was swept with mind-shattering speed from her pedestal. Quickly, as if doused with cold water, she crossed her arms in front of her, rolled from the bed, reaching out to a chair for her flowered satin robe. She had belted it about her waist before she could find the courage to turn and face Jake, who was still lying on the bed. And on his face, when she dared look, she saw an expression she had never expected to encounter, one which stabbed her to the soul.
‘Jake.’ One shaking hand went to push the fall of hair back from her forehead. ‘Jake, what can I say?’
It was a long time before he spoke. Then, with an easy move he stood, looming over her with a hint of threat. ‘In the circumstances I would suggest your best plan is...to say nothing. Anything you do say is liable to be misunderstood.’ He reached out for his shirt, unhurriedly, while keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face. He thrust his arms inside it, the ripple of strong shoulder muscles, the gleam of dark hair against the smooth brown skin of his chest a form of torture to her.
‘On the other hand...’ he continued, and she had the distinctly uneasy feeling that while she had been immersed in her thoughts he had not been unaware of the direction they were taking—something which her sudden scald of colour had doubtless confirmed... She raised a defiant chin, raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.
Bending, he picked up his tie from the carpet, knotted it with a few deft moves, pulled it taut, ran a finger along the inside of his collar. ‘On the other hand, that might be making life rather easier for you than you deserve.’
Blankly she looked at him, struggling with the sob which was forcing its way from her throat——but not for the world would she let him know how his tone of cold animosity was wounding her, cutting her to the heart. In an effort at self-defence she turned away, inadvertently catching her reflection—which did little enough for her esteem.
Where had it all gone? she asked herself with no hope of a satisfactory answer. All that glowing excitement, the bloom and enchantment of a woman in love which had been so striking such a short time ago. ‘I...’ she began, with no clear idea of how she meant to continue. But any need for development was cut off by the sudden shrill of a telephone somewhere in the house, sufficiently startling for her to whirl around to face him.
For an intense, fraught moment they stared at each other, then, as the ringing continued, he turned away. His feet could be heard crossing the landing, entering another bedroom. The intrusive noise ceased, was replaced by the soft murmur of his voice and then he was back, leaning in the doorframe while she had not moved from the spot.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was taut, denying the words he had spoken. ‘I must go down to the stables.’ He gave a quick glance at his watch, a weary sigh. ‘I shouldn’t be long. We have to talk.’
From downstairs the sound of a closing door told her he had gone. Distantly she heard an engine fire and still she stood as if in a dream. But at last a little life returned. She moved to the dressing-table and sat, slowly began to remove the earrings, her choker, pulled the pins from her hair, seeing the collapse of the rich tresses as deeply symbolic. Difficult to identify this woman—faded, lacklustre—with the one who had been reflected such a short time before. Now, with all hope, all animation wiped away, she was very nearly plain.
There was just one thought in her mind—the one that had been hammering so relentlessly for attention for the past few days, the one she had chosen to ignore, knowing full well she was playing with fire. Now she was badly burnt, and her only hope of recovery was to do now what she ought to have done before. She had to get away, back to London, where she could bury herself in her work and perhaps, eventually, be able to wipe this mad episode from her mind.
At last, exhausted, she reached for her nightdress, pulled it over her head, switched off the lights and buried her face in the pillows. The tears came then. The misery which she had been trying to stem for so long could be held back no longer. There was a certain relief in allowing it to overwhelm her.
The w
eeping had run its course but she was still light years from sleep when she heard Jake return. In her imaginative state she found something heartrending about his step in the hall—but that was sheer foolishness, more to do with her own emotions than those he was likely to have.
Then, before she knew it, he was opening her door. She held her breath as he spoke her name once, twice. She was surprised that the noise of her heart hammering against her ribs was not a betrayal. But, no, again he spoke her name, this time more of a whisper, a weary sigh. Then, just as she knew she could keep up this cheap pretence no longer, the door closed gently.
She breathed again, lay there in the dark, wide-eyed and tragic. Wishing with all the futile strength of her being that she had allowed the past to keep its secrets.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BEFORE Ginny could find the courage to go downstairs next morning she packed her case. It wasn’t so much that she was making a statement of intention, rather, it was a calming exercise. An attempt, only partly successful, to reduce the emotional pressure after last night’s miscalculations.
What on earth, she asked herself incredulously, had made her imagine she could control things between her and Jake? When she had known from that very first moment... Love at first sight was such a cliché, not the kind of thing you expected to happen—certainly not at the age of twenty-six, when you thought you were well past the danger age for flights of fancy. When you thought you had your life mapped out—first the career then, perhaps, if a suitable man turned up...
The ache was back in her chest. But it seemed she had been dealt the cruellest hand fate could find for her... Oh, God, if she started on that again she would never be able to face him, and, as it was, after a sleepless night she felt jaded. It was a depressing idea which her mirror was only too ready to confirm.
Brushing aside a tear, she surveyed her reflection critically. She wore the same trousers that she’d worn that first day in New York. The outfit which had pleased her then now looked mundane, a touch dreary. Or was it, perhaps, a mistake to blame the clothes? She was so pale underneath the golden tan which she’d gained over the last few days. All the colour, all the vitality seemed to have drained from her face...
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