by Sara Craven
‘You won’t,’ she whispered. She took his hand and carried it in promise and reassurance to her breast, gasping as his fingers cupped the soft, scented mound. As he stroked her nipple with the ball of his thumb, arousing it to swift aching life. As his mouth took hers once more with deep and passionate urgency, parting her lips with his to allow the hot searching invasion of his tongue.
She touched him in her turn, running her hands along the hard muscularity of his shoulders, letting her fingers drift questingly down the long, lithe spine until she reached the band of his shorts and slid her hands under the silk to find his firm, flat buttocks, instinct guiding her in how to mould and caress them.
Caz uttered a sound between a laugh and groan, the breath catching in his throat as at last he moved, discarding the shorts completely, then lifted Tarn, placing her against the heaped pillows, bending his head to kiss her breasts, his tongue laving their tautly sensitive peaks in an exquisite and irresistible torment that forced a startled moan from her lips.
She could feel the hardness of him pressing against her and she reached down clasping the rigid, velvety shaft, shyly at first, then with growing confidence, as she ran her fingers along its proud length, cupping and caressing him, and felt his whole body shudder with pleasure in response.
His hands were exploring her too in intimate detail, spanning her waist, skimming the slender curves of her hips, smoothing the concavity of her belly, every stroke of his fingers on her skin a potent and erotic delight, taking him nearer and nearer to the soft, downy junction of her parted thighs.
Tarn’s head moved restlessly on the pillow as she tried and failed to control an involuntary sob of yearning. An open and unmistakable sign of how much she wanted the total consummation of their mutual desire. How she longed to belong to him completely at last.
And heard him whisper, ‘Wait, my sweet. Wait just a little.’
But it seemed an eternity before he touched her there at the sweet, melting, molten core of her. Before she felt the subtle glide of his fingertips penetrating the soft satin folds of her womanhood in lingering, unhurried incitement.
Tarn felt the startled flurry of her breathing as one by one she found herself surrendering all the barriers to her deepest senses that she’d carefully constructed in response to this new and powerful intimacy, her body boneless, her eyes shadowed as she stared up into the dark, intent and tender face above her.
As she felt his smile touch her lips and welcomed again the enticing flicker of his tongue against hers.
His hand moved, claiming her tiny hidden peak, stroking it deftly but so very gently that at first she was hardly conscious of what he was doing to her until she realised that his soft, rhythmic caress was creating a whole new world of delicate almost fugitive sensations.
Her bewildered mind and body sought them, held them captive, her concentration focussing almost blindly now on the exquisite play of his fingers, their pressure increasing now, circling on her with sensuous purpose, inviting her to experience a pleasure she had never known before, nor even imagined could exist.
Every inch of her skin seemed to be quivering, the blood pulsing almost audibly in her veins, her entire being enslaved by this new and devastating intensity.
She was like a leaf caught in a tide, carried inexorably towards some brink under the irresistible urging of his hands and mouth.
His name was a husky moan forced from her throat, and then, in the next second, she was lost, her last vestiges of control shattered, as she was lifted up by a mounting spiral of shivering, sobbing delight until her body convulsed into its first spasms of sheer rapture.
She cried out again into the heat of his mouth, her voice cracked and incoherent, her hands biting into his shoulders.
And in that moment felt him slide his hands under her hips and enter her, sheathing himself in the pulsating inner sweetness that he had so gently but so surely created.
Briefly, he was still, then he began to move, as if emphasising his possession, thrusting into her slowly and deeply, filling her again and again with his strength and power.
Gasping, Tarn lifted her legs, locking them round him, letting her own body echo the rhythm he had initiated, giving herself without restraint, taking him into her with utter acceptance—utter completeness. Absorbing—glorying in the total difference of this sensation to everything that had gone before.
Finding herself at last a woman in union with her man.
And when the pace of their joining quickened, she made his urgency her own, answering the fierce drive of his loins with her own passion. Hearing him call out to her, his voice almost agonised, as he came.
Afterwards, she held him, pillowing his head on her breasts and feeling the dampness of tears on her face.
He knew at once.
‘Darling—I hurt you…’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you see? I—I’m crying because I’m happy. That’s all.’
Caz was silent for a moment then he said huskily, ‘That’s everything. My dearest love.’
Tarn awoke to early daylight and silence. She stretched slowly, eyes still shut, her bewildered mind acknowledging that her body was glowing with a sense of acute well-being that she had never experienced before, or believed could exist.
And with that, memories—images—of the previous night and just how often they’d turned to each other in mutual, laughing joy, came swarming into her consciousness, and she understood exactly why she felt as she did, her lips parting on a startled sound between a gasp and a laugh, as she reached across the bed to find the creator of this miracle.
But there was no warm man sleeping there, and the space beside her was chilly as if it had been empty for some time. She sat up sharply, the sheet falling away from her naked body, as she stared around her, alert for the sound of movement elsewhere in the flat, yet hearing nothing.
It was then she saw the folded sheet of paper on the adjoining pillow, and opened it with fingers that shook slightly, to read the few lines he’d left for her.
‘My darling,’ he’d written. ‘I was watching you sleep when I suddenly remembered it’s supposed to be unlucky for the bride and groom to meet on their wedding day before the ceremony. I reckon we’ve blown that particular superstition to kingdom come, but have decided to avoid further risks.
‘So, my sweet, I’ll see you again very soon at the register office, although I have to tell you that nothing can make you any more my wife than you are at this moment.’
He’d signed it simply, ‘Caz.’
Tarn read it again, then dropped it as if the paper had scorched her fingers.
She should be thankful, she thought, her breathing quickening, that he had decided to leave without waking her, or she might not have been able to let him go at all. She could well have clung to him, forgetting everything but the need to be with him. To stay with him, and be his woman, his wife for all eternity.
Instead, she’d been spared to do what she must. To finish what she’d started. And the time had now come.
For a moment the room blurred, but she fought back the tears. There was no place for them now. They must wait.
Twenty minutes later, washed and dressed, she was heading off. She’d fully intended to leave his note behind, but at the last moment, just as she reached the front door, something impelled her to go back to the bedroom and retrieve it.
‘And how many kinds of fool does that make me?’ she wondered unhappily as she pushed it into her bag.
The hotel she’d picked near the airport was big, busy and anonymous, all points in its favour. She checked in, arranged to hire a car for her visit to The Refuge the following morning, then went up to her room, where she remained, at intervals trying to read, or trying to doze or trying to watch television, but accomplishing none of these aims.
She ordered a meal from room service, and ate half of it. She opened some wine from the mini bar and drank none of it. She walked up and down the room, her arms wrapped round her body, try
ing not to think what would have happened earlier in the day at the register office, but unable to rid her mind of it.
At first, he’d probably thought she was held up in traffic, or exercising a bride’s prerogative to be late. But then, as the minutes passed, he must have begun to wonder, until, of course, the arrival of the courier with her letter made everything more than clear.
But at least she hadn’t notified the Press. In the end, she had spared him because she couldn’t bring herself to twist the knife by making the necessary calls. So, in effect, no-one would know of his humiliation except Brendan and Grace, who would naturally say nothing.
And by the time the news got to the London office, Caz would no doubt have found some excuse for his continued bachelordom. He could say they’d discovered they weren’t suited after all. Even that it had been a lucky escape on both sides.
Or he might employ the same reasoning that he’d used with Evie, she thought, trying to fire up her anger and sense of self-justification.
Not easy, when all she wanted to do was cry until she had no tears left. But that couldn’t be allowed yet.
Who ever said revenge was sweet? she asked herself, as pain lanced her. Because they were wrong. It was savage and bitter, and no-one could remain immune from its effects. Least of all, the person who had set the whole thing in motion.
I could have said ‘Not my problem’ and stayed in New York, she thought. But I promised Uncle Frank I’d watch out for the two of them. And fight their battles if necessary.
And I have to believe that this was a just war. I must. Because I have no choice.
So, tomorrow morning, I shall go to Evie and tell her that she’s avenged. That Caz Brandon now knows in his heart and soul the damage he’s inflicted, and is paying for it.
And that she has nothing further to fear from him, and can start on the road to complete recovery.
Whereas I—I have another road to tread, and I can see nothing ahead of me but desolation. And no way back. Starting with tonight…
‘She’s much better this morning,’ Nurse Farlow informed her briskly as she led the way up to Evie’s room. ‘Quite chipper, in fact. Mind you, the police haven’t been back this week, which helps.’
‘I don’t quite understand.’ Tarn spoke carefully. Her head was aching and her eyes felt as if they had been scoured with grit. She had spent most of the night staring into the darkness, too emotionally exhausted to sleep, or attempt to make positive plans. But now there were things she needed to know. ‘Why did they want to interview her in the first place?’
She received a faintly caustic look. ‘That’s something you need to ask her yourself—if she’ll tell you. But don’t count on it.’
The older woman paused. ‘I gather we won’t be seeing you again. That you’re leaving England.’
‘I never intended to stay,’ Tarn said. ‘I only came over for Evie’s sake. And if she’s on the mend, hopefully her mother can start visiting in my place.’
The response was a dubious shrug, and a muttered ‘Perhaps.’
Not nearly as hopeful as I thought, Tarn told herself ruefully as they walked along Evie’s landing. The door of her room was open, and a cleaning trolley was standing outside.
Tarn was mentally bracing herself for the coming interview when the air was suddenly split by a shrill, wailing scream, then the word, ‘No!’ shouted over and over again.
The nurse pushed past Tarn, throwing ‘Wait.’ over her shoulder.
But there was no way Tarn was going to stand meekly in the corridor when Evie was in trouble, and she rushed into the room on Nurse Farlow’s heels.
Evie was crouched in her chair, shaking, hands over her face, making strangled guttural sounds. Beside her, a white-faced woman in a crisp overall was trying ineffectually to calm her by patting her shoulder.
‘What’s going on here?’ Nurse Farlow demanded.
The cleaner shook her head, looking terrified. ‘I don’t know, nurse, I’m sure. I had my Daily Gazette on the trolley, and she asked if she could see it. I didn’t see any harm so I gave it to her. Then all this started.’
The paper in question was lying scattered on the floor, as if it had been thrown there.
Tarn bent, gathering the sheets together. As she straightened, she found herself staring down at the front page. At a picture of a man walking down some steps from a building, his head bent. At the headline above it, proclaiming ‘Billionaire’s Wedding Shock’. And at the text beneath it.
‘Publishing tycoon Caspar Brandon wanted a quiet wedding,’ she read in horror. ‘But what he got was total silence when his mystery bride, former employee Tarn Desmond, failed to show up yesterday for the ceremony at Blackwell Registry Office.
‘Brandon (34) who has escorted a series of beautiful women in the past, including TV Personality of the Year Ginny Fraser, raised eyebrows at a recent company gala when he announced his engagement to the unknown Miss Desmond who worked as a junior editor on one of his magazines.
‘As he left the registry office alone, the jilted groom refused to speak to reporters. And a representative from Brandon International issued a firm “No comment.”
‘Efforts to trace Miss Desmond have so far failed.’
But this can’t have happened, Tarn told herself, feeling cold and sick. Because I didn’t tell them. I didn’t…
And only realised she’d spoken the words aloud when there was another hysterical screech from Evie.
‘You’ve dared to come here, you bitch.’ She was glaring at Tarn as if she loathed her, spittle on her lips. ‘You of all people? You were supposed to be on my side, but all this time you’ve really been trying to take my Caz away from me. Marry him yourself.’
Tarn stared at her. ‘But Evie—you know that isn’t true…’
‘I know that it’s me he really wants, and it always will be.’ The younger girl’s face was ugly, mottled with rage, her eyes blazing. ‘Now get out of here. Out of our lives.’ Her voice rose. ‘You’ll never have him, because I won’t let you.’
The quivering heap in the chair was suddenly transformed, launching herself at Tarn with the speed of a striking snake. Taken unawares, Tarn was knocked to the floor by the sheer force of the attack, and cried out in pain as Evie’s nails raked down her face.
The room was suddenly filled with people, the Professor himself pulling Evie away, holding her firmly, her arms behind her back, while he spoke to her quietly and gently.
Tarn scrambled to her knees and then, awkwardly, to her feet, unable to believe what had just happened.
She said unevenly, ‘Evie, I don’t understand. What is all this? I was only doing what you wanted. What we agreed. You know that.’
The Professor glanced round at her, his expression impatient. ‘Doctor Rahendra, will you please see to this young woman’s face, then take her to my office? And I’d be obliged if you’d also ask my secretary to organise some coffee.’
A slim pretty girl in a white coat, with olive skin and a thick plait of glossy dark hair, came to Tarn and took her arm. ‘If you will come with me.’
‘No, not yet.’ Tarn tried to tug herself free. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘The Professor will speak to you presently. Explain everything.’ Doctor Rahendra’s voice was kind but firm. ‘But now you must leave here. Our patient finds your presence disturbing. And those scratches are deep. They need attention.’
In a spotless treatment room, Tarn winced as her cheek was bathed with antiseptic, and cream applied.
‘They are a little unsightly, but they will heal more quickly without a dressing,’ the doctor told her. She added. ‘And you will not be scarred.’
Tarn bent her head. ‘Am I supposed to find that a comfort?’ she asked dully. ‘There are worse things than scars.’
The other nodded. ‘The reaction of Miss Griffiths has shocked you deeply. That is quite natural.’ She sighed. ‘And it is all the more unfortunate when we believed she was making progress at las
t. But clearly we were being too optimistic as the Professor has warned us all along.’
She walked to the door. ‘Now I will take you to him.’
The Professor was standing looking out of the window when Tarn was shown into his room.
He turned and gave her a frowning glance. ‘I permitted this visit in order for you to say goodbye, Miss Griffiths—
or should I now call you Miss Desmond. I did not intend it to provoke another crisis.’
Tarn lifted her chin. ‘Nor did I. In fact, I thought my sister would welcome the news that our plan had succeeded.’
‘And what plan was that precisely?’ He came back to his desk and sat down, reaching for the coffee pot standing on a tray in front of him, and filling two cups.
‘As you know, Evie was having a relationship with a very rich, very attractive man.’ Tarn kept her tone impersonal, as she accepted her cup. Sipped the strong brew. ‘She was actually planning her wedding when he suddenly terminated their engagement. I—I understood it was the trauma of that breakup that triggered her suicide attempt.’
She took a steadying breath. ‘He’d treated her abominably and I decided he should undergo the same fate. Suffer the same humiliation.’
He nodded. ‘Acting for the benefit of female humanity, I suppose.’
Tarn said hotly, ‘You find this amusing?’
‘No,’ he returned. ‘Tragic. And with a little frankness, it could have been stopped at the outset. And for that, I must blame myself.’
‘It’s gracious of you to admit it.’
‘Oh, it’s not on your behalf, Miss Desmond. If I’d spoken, I might have saved one of our respected trustees, Caspar Brandon from trial by tabloid, among other things.’ He shook his head. ‘All along some instinct told me I shouldn’t trust you, but that was for a rather different reason.’
‘How dare you criticise me.’ Her voice shook. ‘Everything I’ve done has been in good faith—and because Evie herself begged me to help her. I wasn’t acting alone. She wanted him punished. Needed him to feel some of the agony he’d caused her, and I agreed because I—I thought that would help her recover.’