Ruthless Passion

by Penny Jordan

  ‘It looks wonderful, but I doubt if either my father or Gregory would agree,’ she sighed wistfully.

  ‘Why ask them?’ Matt challenged her, and suddenly her heart thumped heavily and disturbingly. ‘You’re an adult, not a child, Davina,’ Matt told her. ‘You have the right to define your own life, to make your own decisions and to be held responsible and accountable to no one but yourself.’

  Again her heartbeat quickened. They were not, she knew, merely discussing any changes she might want to make to the garden, but before she could say anything Matt put down his sketch-pad and got up.

  ‘Suppertime,’ he told her cheerfully, and then when she too would have risen he shook his head, his hand on her shoulders, gently pressing her back into the chesterfield. ‘No, you stay here,’ he told her.

  He wasn’t gone very long, and when he came back he was carrying a tray with a platter of meats and cheeses on it.

  ‘I’ve discovered a marvellous deli in Chester,’ he told her as he put down the tray. ‘Hang on a sec and I’ll get the wine.’

  The wine was clear and cold, misting the plain glasses into which Matt poured it, glasses that Gregory, with his love of heavily cut expensive crystal, would have disdained, but Davina knew the moment she tasted it that this cool, clear liquid with its sharp burst of taste was far superior to anything her husband would ever have served.

  ‘Like it?’ Matt asked, watching her.

  She nodded.

  ‘Good. It’s Italian, from a small family-run vineyard. They don’t produce much commercially,’ he added carelessly, not telling her that the vineyard belonged to an uncle who was one of his godparents, nor that the wine they produced was not sold commercially because its production was the hobby of the aristocratic Italian conte who owned the vineyard, and that to be given a bottle of his cherished wine was an honour accorded to few people.

  When he had given Matt the wine he had told him eloquently that its bouquet was as delicate and erotic as a virgin’s first tremulous climax, and it seemed very fitting to Matt that he should share it with Davina James, who, while maybe no virgin in the strict physical sense, was still unawakened in a way that very few modern virgins could claim to be.

  The wine, the unexpected and unfamiliar textures and tastes of the spicy meats and the soft cheeses, were all so new and different to Davina that her enjoyment of them filled her senses. She only drank one glass of wine, knowing that she was driving, but even that one glass seemed to warm her body, sending a singing vibrancy through her veins that made her suddenly, acutely and nervously aware of Matt and the fact that they were alone.

  When she put down her plate and protested huskily that she had stayed too long and must leave, Matt made no attempt to stop her. Gravely he helped her on with her jacket, making no attempt to do anything other than formally and carefully assist her with it, before walking with her out to her car.

  When he opened the door for her he did so without any flourish or sexuality, and she told herself that the small shiver of sensation she felt as she got into the car was one of relief and gratitude rather than disappointment.

  She was actually about to drive away, when he leaned down and said to her through the open window, ‘Davina … remember, if you want me, or need me for anything, you can always find me here.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE was glad that nothing had happened. Of course she was. But, even though Davina had told herself the same thing over and over again in the four days since she had had supper with Matt, she still seemed to need to reassure herself as to their veracity.

  And why? Why did she need to mentally repeat the words over and over again, as though they were some kind of protective chant? Why, when she knew she had done the right thing, did she wake up in the night, her body aching with a tension that refused to be ignored or suppressed? Why did she constantly think about the small sitting-room of Matt’s cottage, the sharp, clean taste of the wine he had poured her, the rich taste of the food, sensual pleasures that could, if she had chosen to let them, have led to even greater pleasures?

  She imagined Matt holding her, kissing her, undressing her. She imagined them sharing a single glass of wine, Matt licking the drips from her skin, his tongue hard and warm, and as she was caught up in the helpless spiral of her own arousal she was also filled with the most acute sense of shame and guilt.

  She wanted him. She could not pretend to herself any more that she didn’t. But she was ashamed of that wanting, ashamed of her own need, and she was ashamed as well that he had recognised it.

  But the ache inside her still refused to go away, even though she worked herself so hard that she ought to have been too physically exhausted to do anything other than fall into a grateful numbing sleep.

  On the day Matt was due to do the garden she went out shopping. There was no point in putting herself in the path of temptation, she told herself bitterly, not when she apparently had so little self-control.

  Her father was still away on holiday, but Gregory had come home early for once, surprising her by arriving just as she was unpacking her shopping.

  She was just about to ask him what he wanted for supper when the phone rang. To her surprise, he said instantly, ‘I’ll get it,’ lifting the receiver and then keeping his back to her so deliberately and pointedly that she knew he expected and wanted her to leave the room. Automatically she did so. There was, after all, nothing to be gained from antagonising him.

  The phone call was brief, but when he came into the kitchen his face was slightly flushed, and she immediately recognised the air of scarcely suppressed excitement that made his eyes glitter so betrayingly.

  ‘I shan’t be in for supper after all,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got to go out.’

  She knew, of course. How could she not do? Although it wasn’t his usual practice to allow his women to telephone him at home, perhaps because he was afraid her father might take the call.

  She said nothing—what was the point?—but there was a bitter, corrosive taste in her mouth as he drove away. Not because his obvious infidelity hurt her. She had sealed off those feelings years ago. No, it was his total lack of any attempt to treat her with courtesy or compassion that galled her so bitterly.

  He didn’t care whether or not she guessed what was going on, she recognised. He didn’t care enough for her, nor respect their marriage enough to even attempt to pretend or to conceal the truth from her.

  She didn’t go to Matt then. She couldn’t. She felt too raw, too sore emotionally and mentally, but as she lay sleepless in bed she remembered him telling her that she was an adult, that she could make her own choices, and suddenly she wondered what was worse: despising herself for craving the physical possession of another man, or despising herself because she didn’t have the courage the guts, to accept that she was a human being with every human being’s frailties and with the right to choose for herself whether or not she would indulge those frailties.

  If she had an affair with Matt, who would it harm? Who would it hurt? Would giving in to the physical need he aroused within her really be any more contemptible than living with a man who treated her the way Gregory treated her?

  Which was really the more dishonest: allowing herself to admit that she wanted Matt, or allowing herself to be used the way Gregory used her?

  She was not a girl, a teenager any more; she was a woman. A woman—she smiled mirthlessly to herself. She was no woman … not really … not inside. But with Matt she could learn to be … with Matt she could discover what it really meant to be a woman. With Matt …

  Was that really what she wanted, a brief, transitory affair with a man who did not love her and whom she herself did not love?

  But what was love? There were many different ways of loving, and in Matt she had recognised a man who did love her sex in a way that men like Gregory and her father never could.

  She knew any relationship she might have with Matt could never be permanent. He was a wanderer, she had already recognised that eve
n if he had not stressed it to her. But he would never deliberately hurt her … and he would certainly never abuse her, either emotionally or physically.

  So what was holding her back? Surely only a lack of honesty, a lack of the courage to look closely at herself and to admit that she wanted him. Any time you want or need me, he had said, and she told herself grimly that she only hoped he had meant it.

  At least she wouldn’t have to explain the purpose of her call, she reflected as she got in her car and fastened her seatbelt. Eleven o’clock in the evening was hardly the usual time to make a conventional social visit.

  As she drove towards the cottage half of her was hoping that he would be there and half of her was praying that he wouldn’t. She had been rehearsing over and over again what she would say to him, but in the end there was no need for words.

  He must have seen her arrive because he had opened the door before she had stopped the car, coming across the yard to open the car door for her, the touch of his hand on her cold, tense arm warm and reassuring as he helped her out and said simply, ‘Davina … I was just thinking about you.’

  She waited until they were inside to speak to him, taking a deep breath and then saying quickly, ‘I’ve come because … because I’d … I’d like you to make love to me.’

  Was that really admiration she could see in his eyes? There was certainly tenderness in his touch as he held her arm, tenderness and sympathy, as though he knew how hard she had to fight to confront her need with honesty and to admit it to him.

  Very gently he led her further inside the cottage. The familiarity of the small sitting-room helped to ease her tension, as did the calm, easy way Matt was holding her hand, his thumb brushing gently against her knuckles, soothing and relaxing her a little.

  He hadn’t said anything in response to her statement and in another man she might have taken this as a sign that he no longer wanted her, but not with Matt. Somehow she knew that that kind of cowardice, that kind of cruelty, was not part of him.

  Now, as the nervous trembling of her body died down a little with the hurdle over of actually telling him why she had come to him, he turned her towards him and told her, ‘You’re a very courageous woman, Davina, and—even more rare—a very honest one.’

  ‘Honest?’ Her face mirrored her disagreement. How can I be honest when I’m about to break my marriage vows? she wanted to ask him, but she couldn’t frame the words, didn’t want to be guilty in her own eyes of thrusting the responsibility for her decision on to him instead of taking it upon herself.

  ‘Yes. Honest,’ Matt persisted gravely as he raised her hand to his mouth, palm upwards. The light brush of his lips made her stomach quiver with nervous anticipation but that was nothing to the sensation she felt when his tongue began to lightly trace erotic circles against her skin.

  How on earth was she going to cope when he touched her more intimately, when merely the touch of his tongue against her palm had this effect on her? she wondered faintly.

  ‘Honest,’ Matt repeated huskily. ‘And very, very desirable.’ His lips caressed the inside of her wrist, and she couldn’t hold back the tremors of pleasure any longer.

  Instinctively she leaned towards him, her body unfamiliarly pliant. Before he finally kissed her he slid his hands into her hair, letting it slide luxuriously through his fingers.

  ‘It feels like silk,’ he told her huskily. ‘And your body will feel and look like the finest French satin, rich and soft, gleaming in the light.’

  She had started to shiver, unable to hide the effect his words were having on her, her eyes huge and dark, mirroring all that she was feeling.

  His hands touched her face, the pads of his fingers slightly rough against her skin. The sensation of being touched by him was so acutely pleasurable that she forgot to be apprehensive and self-conscious.

  When his mouth touched hers her lips parted automatically, her body instinctively seeking the warmth and proximity of his. It wasn’t a passionate, demanding kiss, but rather one of greeting and welcome, a slow, gentle exploration of her mouth, which allowed her senses to absorb the taste and pleasure of him. His hand supported her neck, his thumb stroking gently just behind her ear. She could feel the pleasure filling her in a slow, warm tide, relaxing her, restoring to her the feminine self-confidence, the ability to believe in her sensuality, which Gregory had taken from her.

  Slowly Matt released her, kissing her mouth briefly and rather hard before telling her huskily, ‘I think this calls for another bottle of Uncle Paolo’s wine, don’t you?’ He led her over to the settee and pushed her gently on to it before excusing himself, ‘A fitting celebration of a very, very special event.’

  As he went to get the wine, Matt admitted that it wasn’t to celebrate her coming to him that he was delaying things a little, not even purely to help her relax and push aside the crippling burdens her husband had placed on her sexuality, so much as to help him retain enough self-control to ensure that he could lead her gently and carefully through this all-important threshold into true awareness and appreciation of her sensuality.

  He had known that ultimately they would be lovers; but he admitted that he had not expected her to come to him like this; that he had not recognised how fine and brave her spirit actually was.

  As he uncorked the wine he realised that, had he been a man who wanted permanence and only one woman, Davina James could very, very easily have been that woman.

  When he came back he handed one glass to Davina and then raised his own in a brief toast. ‘To you, Davina.’

  As she drank she trembled a little so that the wine spilled over the side of her glass and down on to her hand, and immediately she remembered how she had fantasised about Matt licking it from her skin, and her face grew hot at the memory. What would Matt say if she told him about that fantasy? Would he laugh at her or would he …?

  Matt had emptied his own glass, and now he was reaching for hers, taking it from her, drawing her to her feet and into his arms.

  He made love to her slowly and carefully, and with an awareness of her fears and lack of self-confidence which she only later recognised. When he undressed her he allowed her to keep herself half concealed from him in the shadows. When he caressed her body his touch was soothing, stroking, coaxing her body to relax, not asking anything of her other than that she allow him to show her pleasure.

  Her senses numbed by the years of Gregory’s contempt and malice, Davina was too aware of her own inexperience anyway to reach out and touch him; too conscious of her lack of ability and knowledge. It was ridiculous that a woman married for as long as she had been had no real awareness of how to arouse a man; of how to touch or caress him.

  As he stroked her Matt spoke to her, soft, soothing words of praise and appreciation, which at first startled and confused her. Gregory never spoke when they had sex, and he had certainly never, as Matt was doing, told her that the taste of her skin reminded him of the warmth of the Greek sunshine, nor that when she trembled as he touched her it made him feel as powerful and omnipotent as a Roman god.

  ‘Look what you’re doing to my body, Davina,’ he whispered against her mouth. ‘Feel how hard you make me, how hungry for you.’

  As he spoke he took her hand and placed it on his body. Initially she recoiled slightly; not because the intimacy repelled her, but because she was shamingly aware that she had no real knowledge of how she should respond. That he was inviting her to caress him, to arouse him, she did know, but how? On the few, very few occasions she had tentatively attempted to touch Gregory intimately, he had pushed her away, deriding her, his rejection underlining her own inadequacy.

  Her mouth went dry with the panic and despair filling her, her throat ached with the burden of her ignorance, but Matt seemed to know what she was thinking and feeling, because he covered her hand with his own, his voice comforting and reassuring as he told her, ‘I like it this way best,’ and his hand moved over her own, guiding her, teaching her.

  It was like learn
ing to dance, she discovered dizzily; once one knew the rhythm, to move to it and with it was the most easy and natural thing in the world.

  ‘Mm …’ Matt muttered against her mouth. ‘That’s good, Davina … so good. Let me show you.’

  And then he was touching her as intimately as she was him, and her body was responding to him, her tension melting from her to be replaced by another, different kind of tautness.

  It crossed her mind dizzily as his fingers moved erotically against her that she had imagined that this kind of love-play was something indulged in only by teenagers, that it was a form of intimacy scorned by adults—it was certainly not something Gregory had ever shown any inclination to do; and then, as Matt’s mouth touched her breast, she forgot about Gregory, forgot everything but the feelings Matt was arousing within her, ceasing to caress him as she lifted her hands to cling frantically to his shoulders, her back arching as the heat within her grew and Matt’s tongue licked at the dampness of her skin.

  The sensation of him within her was totally different from anything she had known with Gregory. In awed wonder she experienced her body’s desire not just to accept him, but to embrace and absorb him, to urge him deeper and deeper within it to savour and encourage each powerful rhythmic thrust as the need within her built and went on building.

  When he suddenly ceased moving, the shock of it made her cry out in protest, and then abruptly she realised what had happened and flushed with shame and mortification. Her body ached and pulsed still with need, but she tried to ignore it, ashamed of her wantonness in the face of Matt’s satiation, but he was still holding her, still kissing her, his hands stroking her as he slid from her.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ he told her as he kissed her, and then his hand was holding her, touching her, and, while her brain was ashamed and appalled that he had recognised her need and was seeking to ease it, her frantic body achingly welcomed his awareness of its need for the fulfilment it craved.