Somewhere inside herself was a stranger
whose existence she had never guessed at, with needs she had been
unaware of. A stranger whose lips parted under his willingly —too
willingly, and whose arms stole up over his bare shoulders to lock
round his neck, her hands tangling in his tawny hair.
When her swimming senses subsided and coherent thought returned,
she found she was leaning against him, her face buried against the
warm brown skin of his chest, hair-roughened and slightly salty under
her mouth. His hand was stroking the nape of her neck, and his lips
and tongue were exploring her ear.
'Christy,' he muttered, his voice husky but with a note of laughter just
below the surface. 'Honey girl. Bite me now.'
His words restored her sanity. With a little cry, she tore herself free,
her face burning with shame.
'You—you devil!' she choked passionately, and oblivious of her
injured ankle, turned and fled.
She was hobbling quite badly by the time she reached the garden
stairs to her balcony. Her feet were sore too. She had not been able to
find the sandals she had left on the beach after hurting her ankle. The
carpet felt soft and comforting under her bare soles as she padded
across the room and lowered herself on to her bed, closing her eyes.
She still couldn't believe it had happened. Where was herself-respect
that she could permit a man she hardly knew and heartily disliked to
kiss her like that? She pressed her hand to her mouth as if to wipe
away the memory of his possession. She had few doubts as to why he
had done it. It was simply another way of demonstrating that he
despised her. And she had fully justified his contempt by falling into
his arms like that. That was what hurt so much: the knowledge that
while she had been in his arms, nothing else mattered—as if time had
been suspended.
And if she had not come to her senses in time—what then? Might she
still have been with him now—in his arms,: in his bed—blind and
deaf to everything but the cravings he had aroused in her?
Beside the bed, the phone rang sharply. For a moment she hesitated.
If she answered it and there was nothing again but that eerie breathing
silence then that would be the last straw.
It rang again, and that decided her. She picked up the receiver.
'Hello?'
'Christina?' It was Mrs Brandon's voice, abrupt with displeasure. 'This
is the third time I have rung for you. Where have you been?'
'I've been for a walk.' Christina sat up, pushing her dishevelled hair
back from her face. 'I—I'm sorry. Did you want me?'
'Come to my sitting room at once, please.' The other receiver was
replaced with something of a slam.
Christina slid off the bed, looking down at herself in consternation.
She could not present herself to Mrs Brandon in this condition. That
would be adding insult to apparent injury. It occurred to her, with a
wry twist of her lips, that her holiday in the sun had been of
remarkably brief duration.
She changed quickly into a vivid yellow skirt, and added a sleeveless
black silky top with a scooped neck. She gave her hair a swift, hard
brushing, then went along the corridor, trying not to limp too
obviously.
Mrs Brandon was sitting very upright on her small sofa, her
embroidery in her hands. She glanced up rather coldly as Christina
tapped and entered, then she saw the bandaged ankle and her
attention was arrested.
'You have injured yourself, mon enfant.'
'I was on the beach and I twisted my ankle.'
'I see.' Mrs Brandon's gaze went back to the bandage. 'You have had
training in first aid, perhaps?'
'No.' Christina could hear the awkwardness in her own voice. 'I—I
met your nephew on the beach. He was—good enough to strap it up
for me.'
'Indeed?' Mrs Brandon said very calmly. 'That was— most obliging
of him. And not for the first time either. Theo tells me that you also
met Devlin in Martinique?'
'Yes.' Christina felt her colour rising. 'Though I didn't know who he
was
whose existence she had never guessed at, with needs she had been
unaware of. A stranger whose lips parted under his willingly —too
willingly, and whose arms stole up over his bare shoulders to lock
round his neck, her hands tangling in his tawny hair.
When her swimming senses subsided and coherent thought returned,
she found she was leaning against him, her face buried against the
warm brown skin of his chest, hair-roughened and slightly salty under
her mouth. His hand was stroking the nape of her neck, and his lips
and tongue were exploring her ear.
'Christy,' he muttered, his voice husky but with a note of laughter just
below the surface. 'Honey girl. Bite me now.'
His words restored her sanity. With a little cry, she tore herself free,
her face burning with shame.
'You—you devil!' she choked passionately, and oblivious of her
injured ankle, turned and fled.
She was hobbling quite badly by the time she reached the garden
stairs to her balcony. Her feet were sore too. She had not been able to
find the sandals she had left on the beach after hurting her ankle. The
carpet felt soft and comforting under her bare soles as she padded
across the room and lowered herself on to her bed, closing her eyes.
She still couldn't believe it had happened. Where was herself-respect
that she could permit a man she hardly knew and heartily disliked to
kiss her like that? She pressed her hand to her mouth as if to wipe
away the memory of his possession. She had few doubts as to why he
had done it. It was simply another way of demonstrating that he
despised her. And she had fully justified his contempt by falling into
his arms like that. That was what hurt so much: the knowledge that
while she had been in his arms, nothing else mattered—as if time had
been suspended.
And if she had not come to her senses in time—what then? Might she
still have been with him now—in his arms,: in his bed—blind and
deaf to everything but the cravings he had aroused in her?
Beside the bed, the phone rang sharply. For a moment she hesitated.
If she answered it and there was nothing again but that eerie breathing
silence then that would be the last straw.
It rang again, and that decided her. She picked up the receiver.
'Hello?'
'Christina?' It was Mrs Brandon's voice, abrupt with displeasure. 'This
is the third time I have rung for you. Where have you been?'
'I've been for a walk.' Christina sat up, pushing her dishevelled hair
back from her face. 'I—I'm sorry. Did you want me?'
'Come to my sitting room at once, please.' The other receiver was
replaced with something of a slam.
Christina slid off the bed, looking down at herself in consternation.
She could not present herself to Mrs Brandon in this condition. That
would be adding insult to apparent injury. It occurred to her, with a
wry twist of her lips, that her holiday in the sun had been of
remarkably brief duration.
She changed quickly into a vivid yellow skirt, and added a sleeveless
black silky top with a scooped neck. She gave her hair a swift, hard
brushing, then went along the corridor, trying not to limp too
obviously.
Mrs Brandon was sitting very upright on her small sofa, her
embroidery in her hands. She glanced up rather coldly as Christina
tapped and entered, then she saw the bandaged ankle and her
attention was arrested.
'You have injured yourself, mon enfant.'
'I was on the beach and I twisted my ankle.'
'I see.' Mrs Brandon's gaze went back to the bandage. 'You have had
training in first aid, perhaps?'
'No.' Christina could hear the awkwardness in her own voice. 'I—I
met your nephew on the beach. He was—good enough to strap it up
for me.'
'Indeed?' Mrs Brandon said very calmly. 'That was— most obliging
of him. And not for the first time either. Theo tells me that you also
met Devlin in Martinique?'
'Yes.' Christina felt her colour rising. 'Though I didn't know who he
was
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