bite—shall we have coffee now?”
They had it seated in chairs, black and strong, with cream poured from her little Revere cream pitcher in silver. It had been Simon Longworth’s wedding gift, but she had never told Ross that. He invariably admired it. He did so right now, caressing the silver body with a large, rough thumb. “Delicate things always make a man feel clumsy,” he remarked. “He’s afraid of denting them, I guess.”
“Silver is pretty strong,” she laughed huskily. “Like women it’s capable of quite a bit of rough handling.”
She felt the razory skim of Ross’s eyes. “I don’t like Smart Alice talk from you, Clare,” he said.
“It’s only a form of defence,” she rejoined. “If you think me girlish and soft-shelled, you’ll pack me home to England.”
“I might at that.” He spoke quite seriously, scattering Clare’s hopes like spray against a rock. A parting now would close the way to his heart ... like the jungle that overgrows in weeks the spadework of months. No, oh no! She rose in a flurry of lavender chiffon and went to the piano. I won’t go, she thought wildly. I’ll defy him ... seduce him, do anything rather than leave here!
Her hands moved over the keys of the piano, then slipped into the rhythm of a popular tune. She remembered the foolish words and began to croon them in a soft, husky voice.
She heard Ross laugh as he went to the veranda door and opened it. “It has stopped raining,” he said. “The clouds have rolled away and you can see the moon.” Her song grew softer. Was he inviting her to share the moonlight with him? Well, she would! She’d adopt some of Patsy Harriman’s tactics ... he need not know that love compelled her. He could be persuaded to believe that hunger of the body made her want him.
She rose and went over to stand beside him. Feeling the brush of his arm as he raised his cigarette to his lips caused her the most exquisite rush of awareness.
His warmth of body was communicated, his indifference something she must turn to need ... a need that would keep her here even against his will.
The moonlight cut a path through the wetness of the compound; and the rain-washed, primitive beauty of the jungle was all around them. Suddenly they heard the low thudding of drums from the village. “For you, Clare,” Ross spoke deeply beside her. “To celebrate your birthday I gave our people three fat pigs and they’re having a roast-up.”
“That was good of you, Ross.” Her fingers curled like pale orchid tendrils about his arm, pressing into the starched material. “ Th ey would miss such concessions if you sent me aw ay ...”
She glanced up at him, knowing that the moonlight touched her throat and revealed its curves and its shadows. His cigarette winged out into the night, then his hands were pressing warm against her sides and she was letting herself go close and fragile against his chest. His breath fanned warm across her face. For a taut moment they stared into each other’s eyes, then: “You sweet fool,” he growled. Then his lips were on hers, hard and warm, and forcing a gasp from her as her own lips opened under his. The thud of heartbeats and jungle drums mingled for interminable seconds, then his lips were parting from hers and she was gazing up at the queer, flickering smile in his eyes.
“That was unexpected,” he drawled.
“Yes,” she whispered, and wondered how he would feel if she told him what had happened to her during the course of that kiss, that her heart had been drawn up into her throat, and the strength drained from her knees.
“We’ll have to blame it on the romantic surroundings,” he added.
She held on tight to her smile and nodded. She never knew what might have followed the turbulent promise of that kiss, for in that moment, loud and menacing, there rang through the jungle the cry of a large, night-stalking cat . Ross stiffened. His arms dropped away from Clare and he went out on to the veranda
They had it seated in chairs, black and strong, with cream poured from her little Revere cream pitcher in silver. It had been Simon Longworth’s wedding gift, but she had never told Ross that. He invariably admired it. He did so right now, caressing the silver body with a large, rough thumb. “Delicate things always make a man feel clumsy,” he remarked. “He’s afraid of denting them, I guess.”
“Silver is pretty strong,” she laughed huskily. “Like women it’s capable of quite a bit of rough handling.”
She felt the razory skim of Ross’s eyes. “I don’t like Smart Alice talk from you, Clare,” he said.
“It’s only a form of defence,” she rejoined. “If you think me girlish and soft-shelled, you’ll pack me home to England.”
“I might at that.” He spoke quite seriously, scattering Clare’s hopes like spray against a rock. A parting now would close the way to his heart ... like the jungle that overgrows in weeks the spadework of months. No, oh no! She rose in a flurry of lavender chiffon and went to the piano. I won’t go, she thought wildly. I’ll defy him ... seduce him, do anything rather than leave here!
Her hands moved over the keys of the piano, then slipped into the rhythm of a popular tune. She remembered the foolish words and began to croon them in a soft, husky voice.
She heard Ross laugh as he went to the veranda door and opened it. “It has stopped raining,” he said. “The clouds have rolled away and you can see the moon.” Her song grew softer. Was he inviting her to share the moonlight with him? Well, she would! She’d adopt some of Patsy Harriman’s tactics ... he need not know that love compelled her. He could be persuaded to believe that hunger of the body made her want him.
She rose and went over to stand beside him. Feeling the brush of his arm as he raised his cigarette to his lips caused her the most exquisite rush of awareness.
His warmth of body was communicated, his indifference something she must turn to need ... a need that would keep her here even against his will.
The moonlight cut a path through the wetness of the compound; and the rain-washed, primitive beauty of the jungle was all around them. Suddenly they heard the low thudding of drums from the village. “For you, Clare,” Ross spoke deeply beside her. “To celebrate your birthday I gave our people three fat pigs and they’re having a roast-up.”
“That was good of you, Ross.” Her fingers curled like pale orchid tendrils about his arm, pressing into the starched material. “ Th ey would miss such concessions if you sent me aw ay ...”
She glanced up at him, knowing that the moonlight touched her throat and revealed its curves and its shadows. His cigarette winged out into the night, then his hands were pressing warm against her sides and she was letting herself go close and fragile against his chest. His breath fanned warm across her face. For a taut moment they stared into each other’s eyes, then: “You sweet fool,” he growled. Then his lips were on hers, hard and warm, and forcing a gasp from her as her own lips opened under his. The thud of heartbeats and jungle drums mingled for interminable seconds, then his lips were parting from hers and she was gazing up at the queer, flickering smile in his eyes.
“That was unexpected,” he drawled.
“Yes,” she whispered, and wondered how he would feel if she told him what had happened to her during the course of that kiss, that her heart had been drawn up into her throat, and the strength drained from her knees.
“We’ll have to blame it on the romantic surroundings,” he added.
She held on tight to her smile and nodded. She never knew what might have followed the turbulent promise of that kiss, for in that moment, loud and menacing, there rang through the jungle the cry of a large, night-stalking cat . Ross stiffened. His arms dropped away from Clare and he went out on to the veranda
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