Tomorrow's Bride Read online

  And his mouth... An aching sob escaped her lips as his brushed them once or twice, then she tried briefly, hopelessly, to snatch at her emotions, which were spiralling out of control. Then, failing, she surrendered completely, caught his head between her palms, stopping the unbearable teasing movements, holding him there as slowly, slowly, she allowed her lips to part, offering the access which it was now impossible to refuse.

  'Leigh?' Now his breathing was fast, exciting, and the dark eyes repeated the question so apparent in the way he spoke her name. And there was a tiny frown, a faint pulling together of eyebrows, a fierce intensity about him, as if he was determined to brand her image on to his psyche.

  And she, light-years from her carefully nurtured discretion, replied with one word—his name, uttered on a note of sighing longing, her violet eyes hazy and signalling the total submission which was all that was in her mind. 'Patrick.' And she laid her head against his chest.

  A split-second passed, as if time had been arrested, then, with no risk of misunderstanding, he swept her up and strode towards one of the doors, which was shouldered open. Only as they reached the bedside did he begin to release her, allowing her feet almost to touch the floor, suspended in intimate contact with his body.

  'You're sure?' He spoke with exquisite concern and tenderness but she couldn't reply, not with one hand brushing down her cheek, the other circling her throat—but then there was no need. All that was needed she did, reaching out with trembling impatient fingers to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, to trail through that scatter of curling black hair, to pick up in the sensitive tips the throbbing of his pulses which seemed such an echo of her own. Then, at last, she leaned forward to press the softness of her cheek against the warm flesh, to explore its contours with her mouth.

  His hands travelled the length of her spine, fingers dealing swiftly with awkward clips and fastenings, and she felt herself succumbing completely to a blur of pleasure as the delicate blouse was eased from her shoulders. She moaned as their bodies moved together in a contact which was building up her fevered excitement. She had forgotten... Eyes half closed, she tried for a split-second to be detached. She had forgotten, or more likely she had deliberately banished from her memory, the sheer magic of this activity with this man. Even the most abandoned dream could never begin to reach the peak of pure sensation she was experiencing now. All she wanted was for him to... 'Patrick.' The sigh was a blatant entreaty.

  'Leigh.' His reply was a promise as the last restrictive garments fell to the floor and he lifted her up, placing her on the bed, gazing down for a moment before joining her there. 'You can have no idea...'

  But words faded, the world faded; all senses were drifting, drowning on a tide of sheer delight, while the notes of the romantic Russian prelude were being branded on two souls.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN she woke in the dimness of the strange bedroom, stark naked and barely covered with a sheet, Leigh's mind went blank, eyes moving with feverish panic about the walls as she tried to identify the room. Then, as signals in her brain began to click, she drew in one sudden fearful breath, lay perfectly still for a moment, before slowly turning her head on the pillow, biting back a cry of denial directed towards the powerful predator. Just then Patrick stirred, one dark hand reaching out towards her before falling back, fingers curving within inches of her arm.

  Scarcely breathing, she lay there, watching the even rise and fall of the broad chest, a potent surge low in her stomach reminding her of the delicious sensation of touch, how it had given him such pleasure. His throaty sounds of delight were still echoing in her brain, and a scalding heat on her skin emphasised her admission that the reverse was equally true. Each time his fingers had skimmed, touched, tantalised, she had cried aloud at the intensity of it, arching against him in a shameless search for fulfilment.

  And that was what she had attained. He had made sure of it for her, though that had been unnecessary the first time—that fierce instantaneous joining had left no time for the coaxing languorous wonder which had come later, taking her to such peaks of glorious moaning delight. Even thinking of it now in the chill light of dawn made her feel weak and shivery, and she brought one hand up in a slow, exploratory sweep of her body in a desire to capture those elusive sensations.

  Anger stabbed unexpectedly. Not that it should have happened, and she would never be able to explain why it had. Such behaviour was so entirely out of character. Leaving the security of Holly's flat upstairs, she had been totally in control of her actions; she might even have felt slightly irritated that she had been in some clever way coerced into a situation which would involve her yet again with the man she was so anxious to avoid, slightly resentful of the matchmaking plans she suspected her friend had been brewing.

  But quite apart from that she'd had no suspicion of how vulnerable she was. She had been perfectly confident of walking into his hall to pick up an umbrella, walking out and along to the taxi-rank and back to the company flat. But, instead, a touch of his hand and she had been swept into the powerful whirlpool of emotions that he had always been able to produce... A quizzically raised eyebrow, a finger-touch on her inner wrist or at the nape of her neck and...

  She was mortified, filled with self-disgust. So many years of abstinence—what on earth could have possessed her? She brushed angrily at a tear. Probably the music; she had always been a sucker for that particular piece of Rachmaninov... Possibly... her brain was whirling... the sensual assault had lowered her resistance and...

  It was all so contrived. That conclusion came to her in a rush. It was so sordid. He must have known she was to be the guest at Holly's last night—they must have mentioned her name, or even a few hints would have been enough for him to reach the right answer. So the scene had been carefully set, the trap baited, and she... she had fallen in. Ugh.

  With one lithe, graceful movement, she got up, moving carefully to collect her scattered clothes. She took a last look around to check that she had forgotten nothing—the very notion of him pursuing her with some intimate item of clothing... A final lingering look towards the bed, her primitive instinct to go back emphasising the ease and pleasure of abandoned principles, and she was in the hall, searching for the bathroom, quickly pulling on the clothes she had liked so much just a short time ago. Then, lastly, she scribbled a note and left it in a prominent position.

  So it was that, just minutes after waking, she was alighting from a cab outside her block, having asked the driver to return in an hour to take her to the opposite side of the city for her first appointment.

  And it wasn't until she was showered and dressed, impeccably if a little severely, hanging on like grim death as the driver moved from one fast-moving lane of traffic to the other, that she felt comparatively safe from the immediate threat of an irate Irishman.

  Never, she told herself as they screeched round the Place de la Republique, never had she felt so low. Not even when Patrick had gone off to Bangladesh with Gillian Place. That name, the one that had burned in her heart for years, seemed to make her behaviour last night even more irrational.

  For Holly had hinted, during one of the brief periods when Leigh had helped clear things away from the table, that she knew Patrick had had a great sorrow in his life and that she was trusting that Leigh might help take his mind off it. 'Something,' she had mouthed almost silently, as they had crossed the hall with trays of dessert, 'that happened when he was abroad, with his aid project.'

  Which could mean only one thing, Leigh decided. He and Gillian Place. Something had gone wrong and he had never got over it. And her stupid weakness last night had been...just inexcusable.

  Afterwards, she remembered very little of the day, though she had copious notes from her appointments, and among them a little card with the name of a captain in the Royal Navy. It took her three days to recall the sandy-haired man whose invitation to dinner she had parried with such graceful detachment that he had insisted on giving her his hotel number in case she s
hould find herself unexpectedly free.

  In the early evening, as she was driven back across the city, she .sat with her eyes closed and found herself unable to switch off the complete replay of those intimate hours spent in Patrick's bed. She was even filled with tortured regret when she remembered that arm outstretched towards her in the dawn. Her body was suddenly urgent for warm, loving flesh, burning for the tender early-morning joy in which laughter had always played a part. Perhaps she had been wrong to...

  But no. Deliberately she opened her eyes, as if sheer concentration might clear her mind of so many treacherous ideas. And yet...was it treachery to admit that they had matched as well as they ever did? Better, she admitted with dismal honesty, for last night they had reached glorious heights which even her most abandoned dreams had not prepared her for. And quite naturally that led her to a desperate realisation, one which offered bleak proof, if that were needed. The truth was that one of them was obviously much more experienced, whereas the other... She was the one who had gone through the trauma and loneliness, while he...

  Well, she was a fool. A salutary conclusion for an intelligent woman of twenty-five to reach. A fool to have denied herself the comfort of casual relationships taken so much for granted by her contemporaries.

  Ah, well—she gave a tiny, bitter smile at her own naiveté—one lived and learned. And in the meantime... With a sudden change of attitude she leaned forward and asked to be dropped off at the little delicatessen close to her flat. She would pick up something to eat, watch television for an hour and then have an early night. She had often found that a cure for... oh, for all kinds of things.

  Half an hour later, she leaned back on the door of the flat with a feeling of relief, went to the kitchen to drop off the baguette and slice of pate, switched on the kettle for coffee, kicked off her shoes and turned to cross to her bedroom.

  The sudden and loud rat-a-tat at the door made her jump, and at the same time she felt her heart hammering loudly against her ribs, which was utterly ridiculous and out of character, and in any case he wouldn't have the... It was most likely Anna, except that of course she was in... Reaching the door, she opened it quickly, and stood there as if turned to stone. But of course. Who else?

  'Leigh.' At that moment she didn't notice the air of strain about him, but later it occurred to her that he was rather pale. Since she showed no sign of moving he asked, rather tentatively for a man as positive as Patrick Cavour, 'May I come in?'

  'Yes, of course.' A sudden chill on her skin had given way to burning heat, but it was subsiding a little as she stood aside, allowing him to into the small hall where he stood watching le she struggled to retain some dignity as she ~ her feet back into her shoes. Then, with wave of her hand, she indicated the sitting-room and followed him. The pain was back in her chest—sharp, overwhelming. It took all the courage she could muster to face him with an appearance of calm. "This is a surprise. I've just this minute come in.'

  'I know that. I've been sitting in a corner of the landing waiting for you.'

  'You've been what?' Hard to say why this should be such an unpleasant surprise to her.

  'I think you heard.' They glared at each other for a moment.

  "Then you had no right. None whatsoever. I would have thought-----'

  'You would have thought what?' Now, with the light from the overhead lamp directly on his face, she could see that he was angry; there was a tightness about his mouth and his tone was short to the point of rudeness. "That I would take this-----' reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he produced a sheet of paper which she instantly recognised and waved it in front of her '—my dismissal, like...like a whipped cur? Is that what you'd have thought?'

  'N-no.' Inwardly shaking, still she managed a casual shrug. 'I thought you would agree with what I wrote, that you'd see last night for what it was—a pleasant if impulsive interlude.' She had a sudden desperate desire to escape. 'Would you like some coffee? I was just going to make-----'

  'No.' His voice was dangerously quiet, controlled, but only just, she suspected. 'I would not like some coffee, damn it. If I wanted coffee-----' now there was no effort to control his bitterness '—I would have gone to the café on the corner.'

  When they glared at each other it was difficult to judge who was angrier—she because he had dared to remind her of the scene on the landing first night, he for different, more complex reasons. What was undeniable was that both were giving off sparks which were very nearly flammable.

  'I'm here,' he said through clenched teeth, 'to find out your excuse for baling out in that particularly offensive way.'

  'My reason,' she spat back, 'not my excuse but my reason, is in that letter you're waving about. I think it was perfectly clear.'

  ‘Oh, it was clear. Short and to the point.' Holding it up, he read mockingly,' "Sorry about last night, Patrick."' He took a moment out to flick a glance in her direction, one that doubtless drew conclusions from her burning cheeks. But at least, she comforted herself, the glitter of tears would be hidden beneath her eyelids. He went on, '"An awful mistake."' A pause for emphasis. '"I'm sure you'll agree it's best for me to make myself scarce, save a great deal of embarassment all round. See you one of these days.’”

  Another brief silence gave her time to understand at least some of his anger; it did sound like a dismissal, which no man like Patrick Cavour would enjoy...

  ‘Yes, as you say, your message was perfectly clear. Except I don't believe a word of it.' A longer, more expectant silence followed, one which she had no intention of breaking, so he was forced to speak again, and this time she detected a slight softening of his manner. She had to guard against the tiny responsive shivers at the base of her spine. 'I'd much rather you told me the truth, Leigh.'

  'No.' She was worried about her reactions, panicky, and afraid of emotions which swung so wildly from one extreme to another. 'No, you wouldn't.' A hand went up to rake the silky hair-back from her forehead. 'I promise you. And she felt confident enough to look him straight in the eye.

  Another prolonged silence. Behind the impassive expression she could imagine the keen brain working, picking up clues, weighing the evidence. The one indication of his emotional involvement was the hurried rise and fall of his chest. His pride, she guessed, must have been severely dented, and-----

  'Tell me why you ran away, Leigh.'

  'I don't accept that I ran away... I left because-----' she bit fiercely at her lower lip '—because I was ashamed.' Tears sparkled blatantly now on her long lashes. 'It's as simple as that.'

  'Ashamed?' Clearly it was not what he had expected to hear, any more than she had planned to say it, and her mind raced madly in search of the next logical step... 'But why, in heaven's name? Why?'

  'Oh, Patrick.' How she managed to speak his name in that particular tone—amused condescension with a touch of impatience—she couldn't explain, but she had found the perfect cover for her tortured emotions. 'I wonder if you'll believe me if I say I've never been promiscuous?' The word very nearly stuck in her throat. 'I've always had just one relationship at a time, and I felt...ashamed at what happened last night. It was so unfair.' Even to her own ears the stream of lies sounded utterly genuine and convincing. To you, to me—oh, to all of us, really...'

  The silence now seemed endless, and his voice, when at last he spoke, was flat, emotionless. 'Ashamed?'

  'I told you, didn't I, that you wouldn't like it?'

  'And——' the sneer in his voice made her shake with self-disgust '—who is he, this invisible lover who mustn't be betrayed?'

  'That is a question you have no right to ask. I wouldn't dream of asking about your-----' She glared, bit her lip, unwilling to be too exact in her comments, even though there was one name she longed to throw at him.

  'Damn you.' Turning away in obvious fury, he swung back just as she was allowing her misery to show. He took a step closer, searching her features as she fought for composure. 'I wonder if it has occurred to you at all, Leigh-----'
all at once, he was remarkably detached, cool in a way that only increased her misery '—that there is a chance----' his words were slow in coming, as if each one was being carefully weighed, as if he was performing an unpleasant duty which was none the less affording him some sadistic pleasure '—I would have thought, that you might be pregnant...?'

  Her eyes widened in shock as he forced her to recognise the fear that she had spent the entire day trying to chase from her mind, one she wouldn't admit to... 'No.' Her clenched fist came out and hit the table; her tears were almost uncontrollable. 'No!' she repeated, with still more defiant energy.

  He continued where he had left off, as if she hadn't spoken. 'If you were to f hid that you were carrying my child, I would expect—no, more than that, I would demand—that you tell me.'

  There was a struggle then; she had to wait for composure so that she could find a calm voice. 'The possibility does not exist—you must just take my word for that. No matter what your opinion of me, I'm not so stupid, so irresponsible ...'

  'No? Well, take it from me, Leigh, I have strong opinions about certain things, and I would never collude with you in getting rid of-----'

  'Then maybe...' She was in such emotional distress now that she was barely aware of what she was saying. 'Maybe you should have considered these things before. Then there would have been no need for you to rush across Paris making threats...'

  'Was that what I was doing?' He spoke with such weary regret that she was instantly stabbed with remorse. 'It wasn't at all what I meant, but of course...you're entirely right. Before the event was the time to be aware of possible consequences, only... like you, Leigh, but for entirely different reasons... I hadn't meant it to happen. No matter what my inclination, it was enough for the moment...'