by Penny Jordan
‘It isn’t allowed,’ Yorke mocked savagely. ‘God, I must be losing my mind! You’re such a child. Do you know how old I am?’
She shook her head. She knew he was older than her, but how much she was not sure.
‘I’m thirty-one,’ he told her softly. ‘Damn near twelve years older than you. And even when I was nineteen, I had had a hell of a lot more experience of life than you, and yet here you are turning me gutless with that wide-eyed smile, making me want you so much that everything else has ceased to become important. Your room, Autumn,’ he said inexorably, ‘otherwise I’m taking you to mine.’
She darted a nervous look towards the reception desk. It was busy and already one of the girls on duty was watching them speculatively. Taking Yorke to her room couldn’t do any harm. The manager was sure to understand if she explained everything to him.
‘Very well men,’ she agreed breathlessly. ‘It’s this way.’
The hotel was old-fashioned, but the staff were comfortably housed and Autumn had a small room all to herself and a bathroom which she shared with four other girls.
Since Aunt Emma’s death the hotel had become her home and her bedroom reflected this; a photograph of her parents in an old-fashioned silver frame stood on her bedside table with one of Aunt Emma as a girl flanking it.
‘That’s my aunt,’ Autumn told Yorke shyly when he picked up the photograph to study it. Now that they were alone in her room she felt oddly breathless and nervous and had to keep reminding herself that this was Yorke, whom she loved and who loved her.
Yorke replaced the photograph, turning towards her and taking her in his arms, his mouth nuzzling the side of her neck, sending shivers of pleasure spiralling through her.
He lifted her hair, his fingers on the buttons of her blouse, and she glanced anxiously at him, remembering how he had reacted that other time.
‘You don’t mind… that… that I’m a virgin?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘Mind?’
She could feel the hurried thudding of his heart, and his skin felt damp.
‘Only I’ve never made love with anyone before and…’
‘For God’s sake, Autumn,’ he demanded hoarsely, ‘what the hell are you trying to do to me?’
He was lowering her on to the bed as he spoke and as his hand closed possessively over her breast her fears and doubts melted away under the fierce heat of her desire, and the need she could feel pulsing through him.
Yorke buried his face between her breasts, the gesture both shocking and exciting her, his fingers tugging down the zip of her jeans. His shirt followed her blouse and jeans on to the floor and she trembled violently as she felt the hard warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. His chest was shadowed with fine dark hairs, his skin smoothly tanned against the pale whiteness of hers.
He kissed her throat, his fingers caressing the hollows behing her ears and tracing the line of her shoulder blades, his breathing growing steadily more ragged.
‘I want you, Autumn,’ he breathed unsteadily against her ear. ‘Just try to relax.’ His kiss drowned out his words and Autumn gave herself up to the mindless domination of her senses, shuddering deeply as he bent to savour the softness of her breast, his tongue stroking and probing as he explored every inch of her flesh.
A deep groan broke from her and she arched convulsively against him, aware of nothing but the all-consuming desire for fulfilment his touch aroused.
For a moment she felt the full demanding pressure of his thighs and then he was turning from her, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, as spasms racked his body.
‘I can’t,’ he said savagely. ‘I just can’t do it…’
A terrible sense of failure and desolation swept over her. Yorke didn’t want her. Her inexperience turned him off. She reached out timidly to touch his arm, shocked by the mingled desire and anguish she saw in his eyes.
His hands cupped her face, pulling her against him, and even in her deep misery her body drew comfort from the hard contact with his.
‘What did I do wrong?’ she asked numbly, her throat aching with tears.
Yorke laid her gently back against the pillows, and she was so engrossed in him that she never even heard her bedroom door open, and her first intimation that they were no longer alone came only when a tall, elegant brunette stalked into the room, staring down at her with ill-concealed triumph and contempt, the hotel manager hard on her heels, his expression dismayed and shocked.
Mercifully Yorke had reacted quickly to their interruption and pulled the coverlet up over her, but as shame flooded her in burning waves she knew that neither of the intruders was unaware of the fact that beneath that thin covering she was naked, or of what they had interrupted.
Yorke was still sitting on her bed, and he lit a thin cigar, smoking it easily as he surveyed first the brunette and then Mr Hargreaves.
‘There, I told you!’ the brunette exclaimed triumphantly to Mr Hargreaves. ‘And you didn’t believe me. Autumn would never do anything like that!’ she mimicked scornfully, her eyes flicking over Autumn’s flushed face. ‘It takes a woman to really know what another woman is like. And as for you, Yorke…’ She advanced on them, her smooth cap of silky black hair curving a face that was more vivacious than strictly beautiful, her cold blue eyes ruthless with determination. She was beautifully and expensively dressed—even Autumn could see that, but there was a hardness about her that repelled. Rather like a snake, Autumn reflected in awed terror; repellent but fascinating at the same time. Did Yorke too find her fascinating? A pain shot through her and she stole a glance at his face, but nothing could be read from it. It was coldly blank.
‘I’m sure your shareholders are going to be very interested in what you were doing when you should have been preparing to fight a pending takeover—and not just them, but the Press as well. How fortunate that I was able to follow you here. You’ve been too elusive lately, Yorke, I wonder if they’ll still call you Lucky Laing when they hear about this?’ Her voice was hard and mocking, and Autumn looked from her cruelly triumphant expression to Yorke’s shattered one. Was Laing Airlines in danger of being taken over? She had read rumours of it in the press, but had thought them no more than just that.
‘Autumn, I shall want to see you in my office,’ the hotel manager was saying. He hadn’t looked at her, but Autumn was burning with shame. He would dismiss her, she realised that, and she trembled at the prospect of the interview to come.
‘God, man, have you no idea of how young she is?’ he asked Yorke bitterly as he turned away, his lips compressing as though he suddenly realised that Yorke Laing was a guest and as such above reproach.
‘You must be entering your dotage, darling,’ the brunette mocked. ‘Isn’t that when men start turning to young girls? I hope for your sake this doesn’t make the papers. It won’t look very good, will it?’
‘Won’t it, Julia?’ Yorke asked wryly. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
Her eyes narrowed as though she was trying to read his thoughts and he stood up, pulling on his shirt with no trace of embarrassment.
‘And what might that be?’ she asked sweetly.
‘Merely that the general public likes a good romance. And after all, it isn’t totally unheard-of for a man in his thirties to marry a girl under twenty, you know.’
‘Marry!’
The word was almost spat at him, and Autumn’s own eyes widened, her heart throbbing with pleasure and dizzy happiness, as she smiled tremulously up into Yorke’s eyes. Of course she had known all along that he loved her, but his declaration that he intended to marry her filled her heart to the brim with joy.
‘You can’t be going to marry her,’ Julia continued. ‘God, Yorke, you can’t! What about us?’
Her words gave Autumn a jolt, but Yorke brushed them aside with a bored shrug of his shoulders. ‘What about us, Julia? You knew the score, it was fun while it lasted, and now it’s over. Don’t pretend I was ever the only one.’ He fastened his s
hirt and then smiled coolly at her, his eyes cool and mocking. ‘Having a father who’s one of my shareholders doesn’t give you exclusive rights to me.’
She whirled round on her heel, temper flying patches of brilliant colour in her otherwise pale face.
‘You’ll pay for this, Yorke Laing!’ she warned him. ‘You and that moon-faced brat you claim you’re going to marry. You little fool!’ she snapped suddenly at Autumn. ‘Don’t think he would have married you if it hadn’t been for this. Yorke is notorious for his little affairs, but that’s all they’ve ever been. You won’t last five minutes as his wife!’
She slammed out of the room, with the manager retreating behind her, and they were alone.
‘You don’t have to marry me, you know, just because… just because…’
‘I know I don’t,’ Yorke replied tersely. ‘Get dressed. We’re leaving for London.’
‘London? Now… tonight? But…’
‘If t’were done when ‘tis, then t’were well it were done quickly…’ Yorke muttered under his breath, but she was too bemused to recognise the quotation, or ponder on why he had used it. Yorke wanted to marry her. Her of all people. She remembered Julia’s bitter venom and shivered suddenly. The other girl had been jealous, that was all. There was no point in remembering what she had said. Of course there would have been other women in Yorke’s life, but he had chosen her as his wife. So why did she feel this deep, nameless fear which threatened to overwhelm her earlier happiness?
She turned to Yorke, wanting his reassurance and comfort, but his expression was withdrawn, and she remembered Julia’s allegations about the Airline and started to dress hurriedly.
‘Was… was Julia your mistress?’ she asked him hesitantly when she had finished.
His face seemed to close up, his breathing suddenly harsh.
‘Julia is in the past, Autumn, whatever she was is no business of yours. Pack your things and then meet me downstairs.’
A door had been slammed in her face and she tried not to mind too much, telling herself practically that although he had hidden it well, Julia’s sudden appearance must have come as something of a shock to him.
CHAPTER FOUR
THEY were married a week later in London—a very simple church ceremony and then a lavish reception afterwards at the Connaught Hotel, where Autumn was introduced to a procession of people who hitherto had merely been names glimpsed in the Society pages of magazines.
Yorke’s secretary had made all the arrangements. She was an elegant efficient woman in her early forties, and Autumn felt very much in awe of her capable air of command.
Staring round the elegant and crowded room, Autumn repressed a small shiver, grateful that the responsibility for organising the reception had not fallen on her shoulders. Naïvely she had imagined that their wedding would be of interest to no one apart from Yorke and herself as neither of them had any close family, but Yorke’s secretary had soon disabused her of this folly. Yorke was a prominent member of the business fraternity and as such would be expected to be married with due pomp and publicity. Even so, Autumn had been dismayed by the realisation that from now on she would be expected to mingle with these sophisticated, worldly people and have to learn to meet them on their own level.
‘You okay?’
A pair of broad masculine shoulders thrust through the crowds and Richard Herries, Yorke’s assistant, was at her side, proffering a glass of champagne. Autumn looked around for Yorke, but Richard said apologetically,
‘Yorke’s been detained by a business acquaintance. And I’ve been sent to deputise. A very onerous duty,’ he added with a grin, his appreciative glance taking in Autumn’s delicate slenderness in the plain cream dress Beth Talbot had chosen for her. They had bought it in an exclusive shop in South Molton Street during the shopping expedition Beth had whisked her off on following her arrival in London, and the price had made Autumn blench with dismay. It was the plainest dress she had ever owned, little more than a slim sheath of pure silk, and she had felt that Beth was being unnecessarily extravagant until she had seen the dresses of some of the guests.
They had married during the afternoon and Autumn had spent the morning in the Elizabeth Arden salon in Bond Street being expertly made up and coiffured, and she was still trying to come to terms with the result. Her hair had been woven in silky coils at the back of her head to reveal the purity of her profile, her make-up was far more sophisticated than anything she had dared to try for herself. She knew that she looked older and wondered wryly if that had been Beth’s intention, and if she had had instructions from Yorke to try and make his bride look a little less juvenile.
She had been in London for only a week, but that had been sufficient time for her to become aware of the vast difference between the Yorke whom she had known in Yorkshire and Yorke Laing, head of the international airline.
For one thing she had barely seen him. No sooner had they arrived at his apartment than Beth had appeared to whisk her off to her hotel, explaining that Yorke had an important board meeting to discuss the threatened take-over.
He had spent part of two evenings with her at her hotel, and had been so obviously preoccupied that she had hardly dared to speak to him, and the evenings had not been a success. It was Beth who told her that he had managed to stave off the take-over, no doubt thinking that as a very new and young fiancée Autumn had the right to feel somewhat neglected.
It was more than mere neglect that was making her feel so miserable, Autumn acknowledged as she caught a glimpse of Yorke’s broad shoulders through the crowd. All manner of doubts had come crowding into her mind, feeding off her growing sense of inadequacy. Beth had casually mentioned that in the past she had had to act as hostess when Yorke entertained overseas visitors, adding with a rather doubtful look that now Autumn would be able to take over this duty. The thought had filled Autumn with panicky dismay, and her hand trembled as she took the glass Richard proffered.
‘Great bash,’ Richard commented. ‘Trust Yorke to do things in style! He’s a lucky man to have such a beautiful bride.’
‘Come along, my dear, it’s time you were getting changed,’ Beth interrupted firmly, leading Autumn away.
When Yorke had suddenly announced that he was going to Yorkshire and then rung her with the astounding news that he was getting married, she hadn’t known what to think. Julia Harding’s name had been coupled with his in the Press several months before, and while Beth was glad that Yorke had not decided to marry Julia, her first sight of Autumn had raised all manner of doubts in her mind. For one thing the child was so young; not merely in years, but in everything, and as Yorke’s wife she would be thrown to the wolves with a vengeance, forced to sink or swim in the hothouse atmosphere of big business. The wives of the other directors were already speculating how on earth she had managed to land Yorke, and Beth felt very sorry for her. Although she was trying to hide it, as they went to her room Beth guessed that she was feeling lonely and uncertain of herself.
‘It is a pity you couldn’t have a honeymoon,’ she said practically, as she helped Autumn to change into the soft peach silk two-piece they had chosen for her going away outfit. ‘But with this take-over business and now the proposed merger with the Americans, Yorke just doesn’t have time.’
Even while she was speaking Beth was thinking unhappily that it was a bad start to any marriage; a husband who didn’t have time for a honeymoon, and a bride who plainly hadn’t the slightest notion of the demands on her husband’s time, or how much she was likely to be pushed into the background of Yorke’s life.
Stifling a sigh, she turned Autumn towards the mirror. The peach silk was a perfect foil for Autumn’s colouring and on some sudden impulse she hugged the trembling figure.
‘Chin up,’ she smiled. ‘They can’t eat you!’
Yorke was waiting for her when they got downstairs, his arm comfortingly solid beneath her fingers. She glanced up at him with a tremulous smile, but he was talking to Richard, his voice har
d and clipped as he gave him some instructions.
At last they were alone, the chauffeur-driven car speeding them towards Yorke’s apartment.
Its hugeness overwhelmed Autumn. Beth had told her that Yorke had employed a well known firm of interior designers when he first bought it, and to Autumn’s untutored eyes the apartment had the gloss of a luxurious stage setting, far removed from the more homely surroundings she was used to.
To overcome her growing sense of desolation she busied herself studying a painting while Yorke instructed the porter where to take her cases.
‘It’s a Matisse,’ Yorke said behind her. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s very nice.’
He grimaced slightly, and Autumn wondered if he was finding her gaucheness annoying. No doubt the sophisticated women he was used to were fully able to hold a discussion on the merits of different painters, but with her heart thudding heavily and her mouth dry with fear, polite social chit-chat seemed impossible.
‘Sit down,’ Yorke told her, indicating one of the large cream leather settees. ‘I’ll get us both a drink.’
Autumn heard a cupboard opening and the tinkle of ice in glasses, and when Yorke returned he was carrying two tumblers full of pale golden liquid.
‘It’s malt whisky,’ he told her dryly, as she pulled a slight face. His own glass was already empty, and Autumn felt weak tears suddenly blurring her eyes. All at once she felt as though she barely knew him, as though he were an impatient stranger, and she looked despairingly at the door.
‘For God’s sake, stop looking so terrified,’ Yorke said testily. ‘I never thought I’d have to spend my wedding night assuring my bride that there was no need to be frightened of me.’
Autumn’s cheeks burned, and fresh desolation swept her. If only she could match his sophistication; if only she were more like Julia, she would not be sitting here trembling like a frightened rabbit.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered jerkily, as some liquid spilled from her glass on to the pale leather.