Tomorrow...Come Soon

by Steele, Jessica

  Ushered into the sitting room, she felt mutinous when Grant told her to go and sit down, while he went to the tape deck and busied himself with sorting out the tape he wanted.

  Mutiny started to die when the soft strains of some light air wafted around the room. She had heard of soft lights and sweet music, and as what she saw as a seduction scene was coming up, she needed to change into another gear to be ready to meet it.

  `Dance?'

  She looked up. Grant was standing over her. Here we go, she thought, trying not to gulp. But she couldn't move. `I don't dance,' she said huskily.

  `I know,' he said, believing her tonight, when last night he had thought her to be lying. And he actually smiled. `But I promise I won't spring any sudden twists or turns.'

  It wasn't the unexpected charm of him that made her get to her feet, she knew that it wasn't. She was sure it was the music getting to her, that and an all-consuming desire to know what it was like to dance, that had her

  leaving her chair and standing awkwardly in front of him.

  `It's easy,' he said softly, his arms coming out for her, `just follow me.'

  And it was easy. And for a few short minutes, or that was how long it seemed, she was in heaven as Grant guided her around the room in her first dance. That he held her firmly, but not tightly, made her forget the fears she had had last night when he had asked her to dance.

  `That was—I enjoyed it,' she said, trying to sober down, when all too soon the music ended.

  `Want to try another?' he asked, indulgently she thought, when guessing her eyes had told him she had thought her first dance the 'heavenly' she had refrained from saying.

  `Please,' she said simply. And soon she was in his arms again, feeling the same wonderful sensation. She was actually dancing. Dancing, her with that once tricky hip!

  The look on her face when the second tape ended told him she wouldn't object if he went to put on a third. But when, with his arms still around her, he did not ask this time if she wanted to try another, but looked down into her eager face, that feeling of being strangely happy left her. And her heart was bumping madly, when keeping one arm around her, he turned her in the direction of the door and said:

  think it's time you were in bed.'

  Quickly she looked away so he should not read the fear in her eyes and be angered by it. She did not want him angry with her. She wanted him to stay gentle. That way she could . . .

  `Yes, of course,' she said.

  She was not surprised when he went with her from the sitting room, putting lights out as they went, apparently in no more of a rush to reach the top of the stairs than she

  was, as with his arm still about her slowly they climbed upwards.

  But what did surprise her, indeed had her looking at him with wide eyes when at the door of his room she halted, expecting him to open it for them to go through, was that he should halt too, but make no move to open the door. Suddenly he said instead, that usual note of mockery in his voice:

  `Are you sure this doctor chap hasn't already given you the okay to do anything you care to?'

  `I'm—ppositive,' she stammered, nowhere near certain of what was going on now, not at all sure of what he was saying until, his look all at once rueful, he said:

  `Hell!' And as her face went pink, for that 'Hell!' had to mean he was deciding something connected with making love to her, he was observing her heightened colour, and telling her, 'I swear you must be the first female I've ever caused to blush!'

  Gently then he took her in his arms. And it was gently that he kissed her. And because this was the way it had to be, notwithstanding that somehow Grant Harrington was setting off the strangest feelings of her not objecting at all to being kissed by him, when his kiss broke, Devon found her voice, choky though it was, to tell him:

  h-there's a first time for—everything, Grant.'

  She saw a flame light his eyes at her tone, at what she said, at the husky way she had used his first name. But still he made no move to open that door. Then he was taking a pace back from her.

  `Not for you there isn't,' he said. 'Not tonight.'

  Astonished, for surely all the resting that had been forced on her that day had been with a view to her being on top form at this moment, she stared wide-eyed at him.

  Then he was turning her to face the room she had

  yesterday selected for herself, his voice gritty, mockery no longer there, as he told her to:

  `Take yourself and those baby blue eyes to another room, Devon. I want a bed that fits me tonight.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ` HERE'S a nice cup of coffee for you, Miss Johnston.'

  Devon came away from the glumness of her thoughts to see that Mrs Podmore, Grant's Monday to Friday, nine till noon daily, was still cosseting her by bringing out her elevenses to the sun lounger where she lay.

  Knowing it was less than useless to protest that she was quite able to get her own coffee, and make Mrs Podmore a cup too if she fancied one, Devon said a polite, 'Thank you, Mrs Podmore,' and that good lady, seeing that the convalescent seemed disposed not to want to talk, went back indoors. With no mind to the coffee placed on the table beside her, Devon went back to her not so happy thoughts.

  She had been at The Limes for over a week now, and still nothing had happened. And, she owned, apart from feeling edgy and restless, she was getting to be rather fed up with the situation.

  Fed up with Grant Harrington and his brusque sarcastic tongue, too, she thought. Because although he seemed set on wrapping her in cotton wool; and there could be no other name for the way he insisted she didn't do a hand's turn in the house, he was making no secret that to possess her was still his aim—so why on earth didn't he do something about it!

  It was a week ago today that he had introduced her to Mrs Podmore. A week since, deliberately going to his office later than usual so that he could instruct his daily— who although she appeared a very prim soul had softened rapidly from her askance look to find an unmarried lady in

  residence—`Miss Johnston is convalescing here while her father is away on business.' And after advising that she was only recently out of hospital after major surgery, he had instructed, 'Miss Johnston may want to give a hand in the house, but I'd be obliged, Mrs Podmore, if you would see to it that she rests as much as possible.'

  `I can keep my own room tidy,' Devon, not liking any of this, had butted in—only to receive an avuncular look from Grant in Mrs Podmore's presence, and he had patted her arm, and said:

  `You know you're not up to making your own bed yet, Devon dear.' And-turning to Mrs Podmore who was smiling now that it was clear that they were not sharing the same bed, not seeing beneath the remark the intimation that soon, having metaphorically made her own bed, Devon would be lying in his, he had commented, 'Miss Johnston just isn't up to lifting and turning mattresses yet, although she would deny it.'

  Mrs Podmore had further proof that Grant's story about her major surgery was true, when that evening, the glorious spell of weather holding, he had brought home a swimsuit he had purchased for Devon, handing it to her with the instruction, `Get some sun on you tomorrow.'

  She had no intention of wearing anything he purchased for her. But the next day had turned out to be a scorcher. And stiff-necked though she could be at times, the heat combined with common sense telling her the sun's healing rays could do her scar tissue nothing but good, at eleven she had changed into the swimsuit and had gone out to the sun-lounger. Whereupon Mrs Podmore coming out .to bring her refreshment, had seen her scars and had called her, 'You poor love.' From then on she had been waited on as though it was only yesterday she had had her last operation. And Devon's only satisfaction in this state of

  affairs was that she made sure she made her own bed each morning before Mrs Podmore arrived.

  Absently, she reached for the coffee the kindly daily had just brought her, her mind going to the root of what was really getting her down. Grant had taken her out to dinner a couple of times,
though more often Mrs Podmore prepared something they, just had to warm up for their evening meal. And yesterday, as he had the previous Sunday, he had taken her out for a drive, so she couldn't exactly say she was fed up with staying at home the whole time. But what was keeping her awake at nights was the growing anxiety, the growing fear, knowing as she did that Grant still wanted his retribution, was that with him sending her to her room every night, as yet making no move to have his retribution—time was going on. He could not keep her father in Scotland indefinitely, her father was too astute not to smell something fishy if he had done all he thought necessary in the way of a feasibility study, yet was told to stay there. And she just had to be back in her own home when her father returned.

  Her hand jerked, making her hastily return her coffee cup to the table at the memory of Grant questioning her in one of their idle after-dinner conversations, about the statement she had once made that she would not dream of marrying anyone until she had that 'all clear' from her medical consultant. She had been adamant then as she had told him that though her fears of regression were getting fainter and fainter, she still needed that final clearance from Mr McAllen before she would consider thinking that she could truly be like other girls.

  He had mocked her a little, she recalled, a king of the art, but she would not budge from that deep-seated conviction that no amount of mockery could shake—and he had begun to look thoughtful.

  Devon knew panic again as she thought about his

  thoughtful look. Had he decided then that, when he didn't care who she married so long as it wasn't him, still he would not take her until after she had paid her last visit to Mr McAllen?

  Oh God, she thought, breaking out into a lather, her appointment was two weeks away! Lord knew how long after that it would take for Grant to tire of her. Suppose he didn't tire of her straight away—her father could come home—Oh God . . .

  Panicking madly, wanting it all out of the way before her father returned, fresh panic started as she recalled that her parent had always attended every appointment with her. What if he took it into his head to make a flying visit home to go with her on her last appointment? Her thoughts latched on to only one fact—for her father's peace of mind, it had to be all over before he came home. And it had to be soon, for the sooner it started, the sooner it would all be at an end.

  Mrs Podmore, coming out to collect her coffee cup, though leaving it when she could see she hadn't finished, made Devon try hard to hold down her panic.

  `You've made your bed again,' tut-tutted the daily. `You really shouldn't, Miss Johnston.'

  Useless, she knew, to tell her that she felt fine. 'Force of habit,' she replied, dredging up a smile.

  `You're looking pale—are you feeling all right?' asked Mrs Podmore, peering at her closely.

  `Never better,' said Devon, getting up and leaving the lounger. 'In fact, I think I'll go and wash my hair.'

  Having escaped Mrs Podmore, Devon could not escape her thoughts. Grant, for all his sarcasm, his mockery, was wrapping her in cotton wool and treating her like some convalescent. Countless were the times when she went to give him a hand with something, when he would tell her to go and sit down. And that, she was firmly convinced now,

  was because he didn't want a frustrating second attempt to make her his when the time came. It had to mean that he was waiting until Mr McAllen had told her she was as normal as any other girl.

  Mrs Podmore departed at midday. During the afternoon the phone rang, but Devon did not answer it. She heard it, ignored it, and went back to her plan of action.

  Grant arrived home around six, and Devon, with her newly washed hair and prettiest dress with, as if by

  accident, the top button, of the vee neck undone, turned from the drinks cabinet ready to hand him the single measure of Scotch he liked as he walked through the sitting room door.

  She smiled, her hand with the glass in it thrust forward. But the come-hither 'Hello, Grant' she had been practising never got uttered. For his face was as black as thunder as he looked from her shining hair—too much of a man not to notice that, lightly tanned, rested, and with a button tantalisingly undone at her bosom, she was quite something.

  `Where the hell were you this afternoon?' he rapped without preamble. His ignoring the Scotch had her returning it to the tray as she swallowed down this setback to her plans, and wondered what had gone wrong with his day.

  `I wasn't anywhere but here,' she replied.

  `Then why didn't you answer the phone?'

  `I didn't know it was you,' she said, calm starting to desert. And snappily, 'I have no wish to advertise that I'm here as your—house guest.' She bit her lip, knowing her manner was very far from what she wanted. 'Why did you ring?' she asked, forcing a smile, forcing a pleasantness she did not feel in the face of his dark look. 'Was it something important?'

  `I'm going to change,' he said, and abruptly went,

  leaving her knowing that when it came to seduction

  scenes, she was a rank amateur.

  It was later, dinner almost over, that Devon, putting herself out to be pleasant and receiving monosyllabic answers for reward, knew that it just wasn't going to work. Oh, she had seen Grant's eyes on her more times than enough to know that he was aware of her. But even, when it would have been easier and far more natural for her to ask him to pass the out-of-reach cruet, she had leant across the table for it, thereby giving him full view of her cleavage, Grant had not risen with one of those remarks that would previously have been guaranteed to make her blush.

  Frustrated herself in her efforts to get him to take the initiative, the meal was almost at an end when, realising she never was going to make headway in the unversed way she was attempting, Devon suddenly exploded, and asked him point blank.

  `Tell me straight, Grant Harrington,' she said, her voice cold, her face showing now none of the pleasantness she had been at pains to show him 'is it your intention to wait until I've seen Mr McAllen before you—we . . .' she was getting flustered, 'or what?' she ended lamely.

  `Ah,' he drawled, making her wish she had something solid in her hands to hit him with as he leaned back in his chair and contemplated her mutinous face. 'You've been trying to tell me something ever since I got in, haven't you, Devon?'

  He knew exactly what it was she had been trying, she thought, angered that he had let her carry on with her attempt, while all the time he had seen straight through it. Woodenly, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

  `Which is it, Devon?' he asked, his eyes flicking mockingly to her undone button and back to her face. 'Have

  you decided I'm not such a swine after all? Or is it that you're just plain hot to have your wicked way with me?'

  She could do without the comedy. 'Neither,' she told him in no uncertain terms. And, since this was too important to her for prevarication, 'My clinic appointment is two weeks today, and . .

  `I haven't forgotten,' he cut in, his voice cool, his tones even, when she was in danger of getting all stewed up.

  `And neither will my father have forgotten,' she said bluntly, while knowing it might have been better if she kept her father out of this, but having been too worked up thinking about it that afternoon to leave him out of it now. `He has always accompanied me on my appointments,' she went on, groaning inwardly as she saw that mention of her father had succeeded in making Grant look uptight. 'I can't—can't help but worry that he might take a few accumulated days off so as to come with me,' she made herself finish—and for her efforts, had the harsh retort:

  `I had noticed his taking ways.'

  He was back to being the hard man she had first known, and still was, she thought, restraining the impulse his remark about her father had wrought, of wanting to upend one of the tureens over his head. But having got this far, she had spent too anguished an afternoon to storm to her room as she wanted.

  `If it's all the same to you,' she pushed on, never in her life having visualised having a conversation
such as this one, 'I'd just as soon have—er—everything—out of the way before my father returns.'

  `You really are trying to tell me something,' he replied, cool again, that mockery back.

  `Damn you!' she shouted, her temper shot. 'If you still want me, then . .

  `Oh, I still want you, Devon Johnston,' he broke in on her, his eyes going over her, a devil dancing in their dark

  depths suddenly at her flush of colour at his words. `And—with regard to your visit to your physician—you really mustn't go around crediting me with virtues I just haven't got.' -

  Which had to mean, she thought, that he had no intention of waiting until she had seen Mr McAllen! But before she could question him further, he was making her go scarlet, by saying:

  `Added to which, my dear Devon, I carry such a beautiful picture of you and your naked—charms around with me, that I think I can be fairly certain that the month or so I sent your father away for is not going to

  nearly enough for my desire for you to be quenched.'

  If he had been trying to alarm her, then he had succeeded. All too evident was it that Grant had sent her father away on a phoney errand. But what concerned her more, was paramount, to her way of thinking, was that she had to try and get that desire quenched, and the sooner the better. Had she thought for an instant that Grant would change his mind about the retribution he wanted, then she would have tried that avenue, but, resigned now as she had become, it had to be now.

  `That night,' she said, grabbing at all the calm she had left. 'That night when we . . Oh lord, this was terrible. `I'd done too much—prior to that,' she said, swallowing hard and trying again. 'What with chasing around getting my father ready to go off,' she explained, inserting hastily, `because he was so upset by—everything else, I didn't tell him about me having to rest.'