by Penny Jordan
‘Simon…please…I want you so…’ The words were muffled by the kisses she was scattering against his body, but he still managed to hear them, tensing for a moment and then muttering thickly. ‘Hush…no…not yet,’ and then when she moved tormentingly against him, he added hoarsely…‘Christy…Christy, I don’t want to hurt you.’
He didn’t want to hurt her! She just managed to control an hysterical bubble of bitter laughter. He had already hurt her more than he would ever know simply by loving someone else instead of her; and that hurt would be with her far longer than any mere brief physical pain.
‘Simon…please…please…’ She arched her body and ground her hips impatiently against his, achingly aware of his arousal, and wanting more, so much more than the fierce tug of his mouth against her breasts and the tormenting stroke of his fingers touching her intimately. Her teeth bit urgently into his shoulder, her hands stroking feverishly along his back and then as he pulled slightly away from her, over his narrow hips and the flat tautness of his stomach; lower still, blindly giving in to her instincts, tracing the dark shadowing of body hair, touching and stroking until he gasped her name in hoarse supplication, his mouth burning fevered kisses against her skin as he kneeled over her, tracing a scorching line of them along a similar path to that she had just followed, with an equally devastating effect on her senses to the one she had had on his.
His mouth touched her inner thigh and she trembled wildly unsure if she was ready for such intimacy, but Simon took no heed of her smothered, half-inarticulate protests, his hands and mouth working a subtle magic that silenced her protests, changing them to small cries of pleasure-sheathed urgency.
Waves of sensation beat over her, her body writhing helplessly beneath his touch; his name a repetitive gasped prayer on her lips as her body ached to be completely possessed by his. As he entered her Christy cried out with pleasure, but Simon, mistaking it for pain, hesitated, his eyes searching hers, his body tense. He might not love her, Christy realised, looking at him, but he thought enough of her to show her every care; to be concerned for her pleasure above his own. A wave of love for him swamped her and she arched beneath him, feeling the tremor that ran through him, her fingers curling into the smooth muscles of his back, her lips parting for his kiss as she mouthed softly, ‘Love me, Simon…love me now…please.’
She felt the controlled thrust of his body and welcomed its intimate invasion; any pain so brief that it was swiftly forgotten. She knew the exact moment Simon’s control broke; felt it in the powerful surge of his body into her own; heard it in the harsh mingled sound of pleasure and torment that left his throat and she rejoiced in knowing that now—at last—they met as equals; joined by a hunger and need neither of them could master.
What had begun as tiny quivers of pleasure, quickly built up into a powerful flood of sensation peaking in intense shudders of delight that convulsed and possessed her, her small cries of fulfilment blending with the harsh, almost unfamiliar sound of Simon’s voice as his body shuddered almost violently into release.
For a long time afterwards he simply held her in his arms, murmuring soft sounds of comfort in her ear; holding her, touching her until her body stopped trembling and she was at last calm. When she felt able to speak she said shakily, ‘I never imagined…is it always like that?’ She tensed slightly, already regretting her impulsive question. How naïve he would think her, but instead of laughing or taunting he said softly,
‘Are you asking me to pass a general comment, or give a personal opinion? If it’s the former, then yes I believe it can be given the right circumstances and the optimum combination of need, desire and emotion, but if it’s the latter then no.’ He had curled her into his side, keeping her there with his arm, but now he rolled towards her, his hand cupping her jaw, turning her to face him. ‘For me it’s never been like that before. Good yes…even very good, but no other woman has ever made me feel almost immortal.’ A smile curled his mouth as he added, almost self-derisively. ‘That’s what six years of frustration does for you.’
His cynical comment broke Christy’s mood. By saying that he had reminded her that all he felt for her was desire. She wanted to move away from him and to shut herself away somewhere to cry, but he was holding her too tightly. ‘Go to sleep.’ His voice was soft and faintly slurred, and as she made to pull away from him, he snapped off the bedside lamp and said slowly. ‘No, stay here…Tonight I want you beside me, Christy. Give me that at least.’
It was an odd thing for him to say when surely he must now be able to guess that there was precious little she would not give him. It amazed her that he still seemed not to have guessed how she felt about him; perhaps it was because he did not need love to experience desire. Sighing faintly Christy realised that he was already asleep. She couldn’t be here when he woke up. She couldn’t stay on in his apartment working for him, loving him, wanting him. Restless now and unable to sleep she slipped from the bed and went back to her own room.
She would have to leave. Driven by urgency now she pulled open cupboards and drawers, moving as quickly and quietly as she could as she stuffed her clothes haphazardly into her suitcases. It was only when she had finished that she realised she had nowhere to go. Her mother was away on holiday and she had no key to the house with her. Sighing in frustration she stared helplessly round the room. Where on earth could she go? Not to an hotel at this time of night, it was gone two in the morning…then where?
Suddenly it came to her. Miles. She could go to Miles!
Her cases weren’t too heavy and she managed to get past Simon’s door without waking him. For once luck seemed to be with her. The commissionaire on duty in the foyer seemed completely unsurprised when she told her halting story about a sick relative and asked him to get her a taxi. In the ten minutes it took for one to arrive she was almost sick with tension dreading Simon suddenly appearing in the foyer demanding to know where she was going, but he never did.
She gave the driver Miles’ address and sank back in her seat wrapped in a miserable silence. Her earlier burst of tense energy seemed to have drained away leaving her almost exhausted and more unhappy than she could ever remember being before in her life.
Ringing Miles’ bell half an hour later she began to panic. What if Miles had gone out again…? What if…She saw a light snap on upstairs and then five minutes later Miles opened the door, his hair tangled, his eyes crinkled with sleep.
‘Christy!’ When he realised who his visitor was he opened the door properly. ‘God, I thought for one dreadful moment you were Imogen. Come on in.’
She followed him inside shaking with relief.
‘Good heavens, what’s the matter?’
She had followed Miles into his neat kitchen and now he was looking at her properly and could see the white tension of her face and the near exhaustion darkening her eyes.
‘Miles…could I please stay here for tonight…I can’t stay with Simon…Tomorrow I’ll go home…The vicar always keeps a spare key but…’
‘Christy…Christy, of course you can stay here.’ His smile was wryly understanding. ‘I won’t ask what’s wrong because I have a feeling I already know the answer, and besides it’s none of my business. The spare room bed is always made up. I’ll take you up there, and then I’ll make you a hot drink, come on.’
Oh the relief of letting someone else take charge…of not having to think or worry. Even so, and despite Miles’ warm drink, it seemed like hours before she finally managed to get to sleep, her body constantly feeding her with images of Simon…Simon…lying in her arms…making love to her…touching her…kissing her…but at last she did sleep, waking late in the morning, wondering for a few minutes exactly where she was.
She showered and dressed reluctantly, wanting to stay where she was as though by doing so she could hide from herself and her own emotions.
When she went downstairs she could hear the clatter of a typewriter from Miles’ study, and knocked hesitantly on the door. The noise stopped and
the door opened. Miles smiled in relief when he saw her. ‘Hello, Sleeping Beauty,’ he teased, ‘I thought you were going to sleep for ever. Feeling any better?’ he added awkwardly. ‘Last night…’
‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ Christy apologised, ‘but I just didn’t know where to go…I couldn’t go home…and I couldn’t stay with Simon… .’ She shivered, and Miles covered her hands with his own. ‘Of course you should have come here. We’re friends aren’t we, Christy, and that’s what friends are for.’ A tiny grin curled his mouth. ‘I only wish that Imogen had taken it into her head to come and visit me. It might have convinced her that I don’t want her. By the way,’ he added, ‘there’s a photograph and a couple of lines about us in one of the morning papers, want to see it?’
He searched around on his desk and then brandished the newspaper. He had already opened it on the appropriate page and Christy felt her stomach clench as she looked into her own familiar features, staring back at her from the paper. The photograph had obviously been taken when they were dining together, although there was no sign of Imogen.
‘Writer Miles Trent dining with his recent assistant Christy Lawrence. Could romance be blossoming between this recently inseparable pair? Christy it will be remembered accompanied Miles to India last year while he was working on his bestselling novel Mutiny.’
‘That should put her off the scent,’ Miles announced with evident satisfaction. ‘Her father’s an extremely moral-toned man and once he thinks I’m involved with someone else, he’ll soon put a stop to her antics.’
‘I’d better make some arrangements for getting home,’ Christy intervened. ‘May I use your ‘phone?’
‘Why the rush? Your mother’s away, why not stay here for a few days? I could do with some help to tidy up my correspondence.’ He grinned to show that he was only joking. ‘In fact,’ he added on a more serious note, ‘I’m supposed to be attending a publicity bash tonight. Why don’t you come with me, it will do you good?’
‘I didn’t know you’d got anything new coming out?’
‘I haven’t. It’s for one of my agent’s new protegées, but he’s invited as many well-known names as he can as well. Since he’s my agent, I could hardly refuse. It will mean an overnight stay. He’s got a huge sprawling place in Gloucestershire, so you needn’t worry that there won’t be room for you. In fact, if you fancy the idea, I’ll give him a ring and warn him to expect you.’
She had never felt less in a party mood, but why not go? At least it would stop her from having too much time on her own to brood. If she went back to the vicarage that was exactly what she would do.
‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Mind…Why should I? I am male enough to enjoy escorting a beautiful woman, Christy,’ he told her drily.
A phone call to his agent confirmed that Christy would be welcome to accompany him and that there would be plenty of room for her. She would have to go out and buy something to wear, Christy reflected wryly. The blue silk, which would have been admirably suitable, was still no doubt lying on Simon’s bedroom floor. What would his housekeeper make of that? Christy wasn’t naïve enough to believe that she was the only woman who had ever shared Simon’s bed; but she suspected she was certainly the only one who had left it in the middle of the night, leaving half her wardrobe behind.
Miles told her that he wanted to leave for Gloucestershire about four o’clock. It was gone ten now, but she had no appetite for food so she might as well go out and find something to wear.
It didn’t take her long. She was in no mood for buying clothes, and the slim-fitting, dark navy, cream-speckled Caroline Charles silk suit she discovered in a Chelsea boutique seemed just the right choice for a publicity bash. In stark contrast to the blue silk, it buttoned primly up to the neck and had a delicate peter pan collar with matching cream cuffs. She looked like someone’s secretary in it, she reflected cynically, wondering what the Press would make of the fact that Miles would be escorting her to the ‘do’. What did it matter? Simon was hardly likely to be concerned who her name was coupled with. Simon! Treacherously her heart started to ache, her body shivering as she re-lived the touch of his hands upon it. Dear God, would it never end? Why ask; she already knew the answer to that one.
She got back to Miles’ house in plenty of time for their departure. His agent’s house was in the country he had said, which meant that it might be wise to take along some casual clothes. He had told her that they would probably stay over for lunch and then return, and she packed accordingly.
Miles’ agent’s house was a neo-Gothic Victorian monstrosity which he told her had caught the eye of his American wife, and which she had insisted on buying.
‘Fortunately, it’s extremely comfortable inside—its only saving grace,’ Miles told her as he parked in front of the house. There were several other cars there already—an indication that they were not the first to arrive.
‘You might find Charles a little over-ebullient,’ Miles warned her as they went in. ‘Pay no attention, it’s just his way.’
They were greeted by their host and hostess almost immediately and Christy could see what Miles meant. Charles Orton was a tall, florid man in his late fifties, with thick silver-grey hair and sharp, faded blue eyes that took note of and obviously recognised her. His grip when he shook hands with her was firm to the point of being almost forceful, and he emanated a hearty sincerity which she suspected could be slightly overpowering.
His wife was one of that breed of American women who breathe money and all that it can buy. Beautifully slim, immaculately coiffured and made-up, she was elegance personified, Christy reflected, and could have been any age from thirty-five to forty-five. She was also extremely charming, her smile warm and welcoming as she shook Christy’s hand.
‘So you’re Christy,’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve heard so much about you, and of course Charles is a great admirer of your mother.’ Christy gave a noncommittal smile.
‘Several other people have arrived, and we’re just having an informal get together in the drawing room. I’ll get the maid to take you up to your rooms and if you feel like joining us please do.’
‘Thank you.’ Christy smiled at her. ‘It’s very kind of you to make room for me like this at the last minute.’
‘Not at all.’ Her hostess’s smile was curious. ‘This is the first time Miles has ever brought a…friend with him to one of our “dos”. I take it that…er…separate rooms?’
‘Oh yes,’ Christy hastily confirmed, adding firmly, ‘Miles and I are only friends.’
Her hostess’s attention was taken by some new arrivals, so she didn’t reply, and Christy stifled a faint sigh as she followed the maid upstairs.
Miles raised his eyebrows. ‘Not sorry you came are you?’
‘No…’ Poor Miles. He was doing his best to cheer her up and she was being nothing but a misery. What did it really matter if Charmain Orton did draw the wrong conclusions about their relationship?
Her room was a pleasant one. Furnished with a double bed and decorated in soft, misty lilacs. There was a bathroom off it and a generously large wardrobe. Fresh flowers were arranged on the table in front of the mirror and there was also a large supply of engraved notepaper; some glossy magazines and an expensive tin of biscuits beside the bed.
Unwilling as yet to go down, Christy unpacked and re-did her make-up, debating whether it was best to change into her suit now, or wait until later. In the end thinking that a warm bath might relax her overwound nerves, she decided that she might as well get ready now, rather than wait until later.
In the end it was almost two hours after her arrival before she eventually went downstairs again. The sound of voices coming from the drawing room confirmed that many more people had arrived during her absence, and she hesitated for a second by the open door, searching in vain for Miles’ familiar fair head.
‘Ah, Christy, my dear, there you are.’ Charles Orton smiled at her warmly. ‘Do come along in and m
eet some people. Miles has been button-holed by one of my American colleagues. He thinks Miles’ latest book might make a good film.’
A little unwillingly Christie allowed herself to be drawn into the circles Charles had formed around himself. Some of the other guests she knew by sight; some to talk to. The publishing world was quite a small one, and she was familiar with these publicity ‘dos’ having attended several of them with her mother. She could see Miles now, pinned in a corner, listening to a small, bald-headed man who was talking earnestly to him. A small smile curved her mouth, and just as she was about to turn away her body froze. There, not three feet away from Miles, was Simon. And what was more he had seen her; seen her and was coming towards her. Sheer panic engulfed her. She turned automatically to run, and found she could not, her flight impeded by the other guests. Even so she slipped hurriedly through the crowded room, intend on gaining the safety of her bedroom. There had been a look in Simon’s eyes that warned her that he was not in the best of moods; a look that warned her of the inadvisability of letting him come any where near her. He caught up with her just as she reached the door, lean fingers curling round her wrist, his voice a harsh sound in her ears as he said quietly, ‘I want to talk to you…’
‘There’s nothing to say.’
‘No?’
He was standing close enough to her for her to see the tawny gold flicker in his eyes; the glitter of intent with which the hunter marked its prey and despite the centrally heated warmth of the house she shivered.
‘Why did you leave?’
People were looking covertly at them; all except Miles who seemed to be too engrossed in his conversation to see what was going on.
‘People are staring…’
‘Let them…or are you worried about what Trent will say? Oh yes, I know that you went running to him.’ He practically snarled the words at her. She was beginning to feel faint and decided that it must be because of the torniquet like pressure his fingers were applying to her arm.