Tomorrow...Come Soon

by Steele, Jessica

  seen him, Grant Harrington standing with his hand still on the light switch.

  Realising it had been the light coming on that had startled her awake, and that when she had meant to be back at The Limes when he returned, she must have fallen asleep, and been asleep for hours, trying not to get alarmed that he looked ready to throttle her as his hand fell from the light switch and he approached, she asked:

  `What—time is it?'

  `Time you learned some bloody sense!' was her not very forthcoming answer.

  Then long arms were stretching down to haul her to her feet. And, not waiting for her to do it herself, he began unbuttoning the overall she still had on, the tell-tale duster hanging from its pocket revealing what she had been up to.

  `Get your shoes on,' he ordered, stripping the overall from her.

  Devon obeyed his grunted instruction, but was coming more and more awake by the minute. Obviously he had just got home and, weary himself, was as mad as hell that he had had to turn out again to come looking for her.

  `Business satisfactory?' she dared to enquire—and finding her annoyance with him rearing again that he had not telephoned yet expected her to stay put, 'Or are you late because of other business?'

  For a moment she thought he was going to flatten her with one of his short and sharp replies. Then a look appeared in his eyes she couldn't fathom, and he was biting down whatever it had been he was going to flatten her with, though he succeeded in flattening her nevertheless, when he said shortly:

  `I'm not in a mood to pay any attention to your jealous little barbs. It's nearly eleven. Get going.'

  'Jealous!' He would have edged her out of the door, but

  his accusation had her standing her ground. 'My God, you have been overworking!' she flared—and found his patience, never very dense, had suddenly worn thin.

  `Move,' he roared, 'or I'll damn well carry you!'

  Devon jumped at his tone, and moved quickly out into the hall. But there a sudden recollection came to her, and she turned left, not right. made a cake,' she muttered, and went scooting off to the kitchen.

  With Grant getting madder and madder she put the cake away in a tin and heard him snarl, `It's no wonder you were spark out when I came in,' and accusing, `You've been on your feet all day!'

  `I'm not an invalid,' she flared.

  But she had time only to put the lid on the cake tin, the tin having to be left out on the kitchen table. For at that point, Grant Harrington quietly blew his top.

  As though she weighed nothing at all, in the next moment he grabbed her up, and flicking lights off as he went, an ominous quietness showing in the deliberate way he moved, he carried her outside. He did not set her down when they reached his car, but opened the passenger door and, not saying another word, placed her in the front seat—and all at once Devon was scared.

  The drive back to The Limes was completed without one syllable being uttered, and Devon was fast growing of the opinion that the sooner she took herself off to bed, the better for her it would be. Perhaps by the morning, when he had recovered his temper, she would be able to tell him that she had not done so very much that day. Perhaps after a decent night's sleep she wouldn't be feeling so frayed around the edges either.

  That same ominous quietness was still about him when they reached his home. Devon did not wait for him to come round to let her out, not looking forward to, if she

  didn't move quickly enough a second time, being picked up and thrown indoors.

  She was up the steps and had the key he had given her inside the lock before he had joined her. He flicked on the hall light as they went in, and thinking it would be far better if she said nothing, when anything she said, what with her feeling on edge and his mammoth temper looking for a spark, all hell could be let loose, her eyes went to the stairs.

  She had actually taken two steps towards those stairs when Grant's voice, quiet behind her, asked:

  `Have you eaten today?'

  She so very nearly flared then that, as mad as he was with her, he was still into looking after her welfare.

  `Yes,' she replied stiffly, adding a tight, 'thank you,' because that was the way she had been brought up. 'I'll say goodnight,' she found herself tacking on, 'I'm going to bed.'

  She had made it to the bottom of the stairs this time, when his voice, from exactly the same spot, telling her that he had not moved, came again. 'Devon.' She didn't like the way he said her name, it sounded—threatening! But she halted. Then because he had something else to add, and didn't look like addressing it to her back, she turned to face him.

  He had that quiet look to him still, she saw. But he looked too like a man who had more than one ace up his sleeve. And suddenly, when she already knew that he was capable of repaying outstanding debts without the use of money, Devon knew fear.

  She was right to know fear, she soon learned. For, his voice more cool than quiet, he succeeded monumentally in freezing on the instant any flicker of a hot edgy reply when, his eyes watchful for reaction, he dropped out:

  `A propos you not being an invalid, make it the—big bed.'

  The silky smile that answered her wide-eyed, shattered look was all she needed to know that he meant it! And while she knew that she should be glad, glad, glad, that something was going to happen, that a start was being made to free her father from the fate that awaited him, she turned away from Grant Harrington, her intelligence telling her something else as well.

  She washed and changed into her night things in the room she had always used, barring that one night. She knew now why Grant was so furious with her. It wasn't just that she had disobeyed him and had not been there when he had got back. All too clearly she knew then, as admitting to nerves, she left her room and went to the room that housed the big bed, was the fact that having seen to it that she rested, having not taken her during those early weeks which he must have thought of as a convalescent period for her, he had been building up to get her fit so that the debt she had incurred through her father should be discharged.

  Grant had not wanted to be put off again by any moan of pain she uttered. But clearly, tonight, whether she moaned from pain or not would be immaterial to him. He was so angry with her for wearying herself with housework and baking—having no idea that she had fallen asleep on the settee more because she had barely slept a wink last night than through her exertions of the day—that tonight he was mad enough to make her his without thought or regard for her old injury.

  Telling herself she had to be glad that this moment had arrived was of no help at all to quieten the butterflies she was experiencing as she shed her robe and climbed into the big bed.

  As before, she put out the bedside lamp and plunged the

  room into darkness. And as before she prayed, but with little hope, that angry as he was, he would not be rough with her. And, as before, she waited.

  An age seemed to pass before the opening of the bedroom door had her heart thundering against her rib cage. Again Grant did not put on the light, but moved quietly around in the darkness. Then he was beside her in the big bed, and was lying on his back, but as far as she could tell, a mile away, for he was not touching her.

  Expecting at any moment that he would reach for her, Devon lay rigid. Then she heard, anger seeming to be gone from him, she thought, the quiet question:

  `Are you awake?'

  For one crazily pitched moment it came to her to wonder—would he, if she did not answer, think she was asleep and not disturb her? She discounted that as that crazy thought was followed by. What choice had she but to answer? Her father could return at any time.

  `Y-yes,' she replied, her voice husky, a trembling beginning in her that now, now he would take her in his arms.

  The bedcovers heaved as he moved. And Devon, her heart drumming, was suddenly staggered to hear Grant say, 'Then go to sleep.' And as the bedclothes settled again, she was stupefied to find he had—turned his back on her!

  Hardly believing it, her thoughts went off at a t
angent. He was playing with her! He didn't mean it! What was she doing in his bed if it wasn't . . . Had he gone off the idea? Had he gone off the idea altogether? Her father .. .

  The sound of even breathing coming from the other side of the bed told her that Grant had not been playing with her. He must have been overworking and had tired himself out! Hard on the heels of that thought came another that said he had tired himself out, but not from overwork. That he had satiated his appetite for a woman

  I

  elsewhere made her feel angry. How dared he? she thought, and was furious with him, a sick feeling coming to her until she remembered his remark about her being jealous.

  Rot, she thought, knowing perfectly well that she wasn't in the least jealous. It was only because that threat still hung over her father that she was getting so stewed up.

  Her thoughts then began to grow bitty, and as her eyes closed, so her thoughts became half sentences. The bed was warm, and comfortable, and in another few minutes she was forgetting that she did not have the bed to herself.

  As dawn filtered through the window, Devon moved in her sleep and came into contact with a naked and warm manly chest. Unused to bumping into anything in her solitary bed, she was instantly awake, her hand snatching back at so personal a contact.

  Though, oddly, she felt neither shock nor surprise to find that Grant no longer had his back to her, but had moved during the night and was now sleeping with an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and that her head was very near to his head.

  Too soon awake to wonder why that arm should feel so comfortable, she wondered instead, was Grant awake too? His breathing was even, so he must be asleep, she thought, and without further thought, she had moved her head so she could look at him.

  The shock she would have thought natural a second or two earlier visited her the instant she saw his sleeping expression. But it was not that even in sleep his mouth still had that firm look to it that was the cause of her shock. Or that with his eyes closed he looked strangely contented to have her in his arms—which was ridiculous, she had to own later, for since she had not felt him gather her to him, he most likely had not consciously taken hold of her. But

  what shocked her, and caused her to make a small involuntary movement as though an electric charge had unexpectedly gone through her, was that suddenly, blindingly, in that moment, she knew that—she was in love with him!

  She flicked her eyes away from his face, not believing it. It couldn't be true! Why, only last night she had been near to hating him! Her eyes went back to him again, and she was visited by such a feeling of tenderness for him, she just had to know that it was true. That she, Devon Johnston, was in love, with Grant Harrington.

  That feeling of overwhelming tenderness took over. Quietly she moved her head forward, and gently, no longer in charge of herself, she softly laid her lips over the shoulder nearest to her.

  I love him, she thought, and with no thought then in her head that Grant did not love her, a peace came over her. She felt safe, secure in his arms—and she loved him. And

  loving

  him, knowing he had been dead beat last night and was not likely to wake up for a few more hours, she could just not resist the urge to kiss him, just once more.

  Only this time when she laid her mouth over the warmth of him, his shoulder moved. Quickly she pulled back. But even as she moved, the arm about her tightened. And Devon knew as her eyes shot to his face and she saw that dark eyes were open and were fastened on her, that it was the feel of her lips on him that had awakened him.

  `I—didn't mean to—wake you,' she said, it seeming out of place in that moment to talk above a whisper, even as she thought it would have been far better for him to think she had slipped towards him in her sleep.

  `I'd like to be woken every morning in that same way,' he said softly back. And he smiled so that she just did not see then that he was not referring to her in particular, and that any woman kissing him awake would fit the bill.

  I

  Her love for him had her smiling back, no thought in her head to move away. She loved him, and never had she felt this close to him.

  It seemed natural that he should raise his head from his pillow to kiss her. And just as natural that, his movements unhurried, he should slowly move her until she was on her back, his chest over hers as, gently, he kissed her again.

  There was a smile in his eyes when he pulled back from her. 'You're beautiful,' he whispered, and kissed her eyes, drawing away to tell her, 'Your eyes are beautiful.' Then kissing her gently again, he told her, 'Everything about you is beautiful.'

  The next time he kissed her, Devon's arms went up and around him. And as his kiss lengthened and deepened, there was no thought whatsoever in her head, her heart full and all for Grant, of her father. She loved Grant, she loved him.

  What was showing in her eyes she neither knew nor cared. But when again Grant looked at her, then drew a sharp breath, then as his head came down and he kissed her again, and breathed, 'My darling,' Devon just did not want to let him go.

  Her arms held him to her, and again he was looking into her eyes, at her love-pink skin, at the tenderness in her for him that she had never shown him before.

  `I want you,' he said, his voice husky in his throat. And as a gentle kiss fluttered to the side of her mouth, 'Do you want me, Devon?'

  Her answer was to place a hand in his hair, to pull his head that short distance needed. And, her lips parting, she kissed him.

  His hands caressing her, his kisses embracing her, Devon's colour warmed. She returned kiss for kiss as her breasts were moulded, kissed, and tormented. A scream-

  ing need for him was being drawn from her as, not hurrying, he took her to a higher pitch.

  And then, suddenly, it was all over—so suddenly that she was in small shock again. She had moaned in pure and utter rapture at what his touch was doing to her. And it was that moan of pleasure that had all ease from the fierce wanting he had wreaked in her snatched from her grasp.

  Bewildered that, as though he had been scalded, Grant shot from the bed, she heard him swear, heard a sound like that of utterly unbearable frustration. And while the flush from his lovemaking was still glowing on her cheeks, she saw, not believing it, that without turning her way once, Grant had somehow got a robe around him, and with hurricane speed, and quite as devastating, he had left her.

  Stunned, she had not the least chance of shrugging her shoulders and going back to sleep. Indeed, five minutes later, her love-drugged brain starting to clear, she was still sitting gaping at the door Grant had so rapidly exited through.

  But her brain was clearing. And because she needed to find an answer to why had he bolted when it had looked as though there was not the smallest chance of that, Devon came out from her delirium to think that either her moan of ecstasy had triggered off reminders for him of that moan of pain he had wrought in her before—memories that as yet she had not been declared fully fit by her doctor—or that he had suddenly realised that to be giving herself so freely must mean that she loved him!

  Hot colour of embarrassment rioted through her. She felt despair all at once that like a fool she had fallen in love with him. And nightmare anguish was vying for precedence, that her love was unwanted by him, and that he had no intention of getting ensnared with some female who, from the very way she had been, looked as though

  she might want to cling on long after he had tired of her.

  It was then that thoughts of her father began to intrude. And once they had intruded, Devon was to be overwhelmed with anxiety again. For, whatever reason Grant had for going off the idea of wanting to make love to her, gone off the idea he very definitely had—so where did that leave her father?

  An hour later, bathed, dressed, and hoping she looked more composed than she felt, Devon thought she had screwed up sufficient courage to go downstairs and face Grant Harrington.

  He was clean-shaven and was dressed as, her expression wooden, she went into the sitting room
where he was. She saw his face too was set in solemn lines, which had her sending further stiffening to her spine as she fought to eject the image of his smiling eyes, his mouth turned up at the corners, just before he had kissed her.

  `I . . .' she started coldly—and got severely chopped off before she could utter another syllable.

  `Get packed,' he ordered, gravel in his voice.

  `Packed?' she exclaimed, fear, apprehension for her father mingling with deep despair that Grant had no use for her love, as she fought with all she had so he should know that any idea he had that she loved him in any small degree was a figment of his imagination.

  `I'm taking you back to your home,' he elucidated shortly.

  `But . .' it was killing her, but she had to stay in there, for her father's sake she had to bite down the 'Don't bother driving me, I'll find my own transport But I—we . . Oh God, this was terrible. 'We haven't . . .' Devon found she could not follow that line further. But stubbornness was cementing her feet to the floor. 'What about my father?' she asked bluntly, her voice waspish, which had him glowering at her for her trouble.

  `Are you going to get packed, or do I do it for you?' he asked brusquely.

  Never had she known she could be so stubborn. But his ignoring that very important question she had put had her ready to stay with her feet firmly planted on his carpet all day if need be.

  `You can't prosecute him,' she challenged, no matter how firm her feet were, her legs feeling like water that he threw her a look that clearly told her not to tell him what to do. 'I came here fully prepared to—to do as you asked,' she made herself go on. And, about to go under for the third time, `I' still—am,' she forced through lips that objected to that admission.

  Carelessly, Grant shrugged as he turned from her, his words cutting into her like acid as he tossed at her, 'Had you more experience,' and she was sure there was derision there, 'then you would know that there's nothing more guaranteed to turn a man off than to have a woman throw herself at him.'