Читать книгу Emily's Innocence - India Grey - Страница 10

‘OSCAR, it’s Luis.’

At the other end of the line there was a slight pause. ‘Luis—how good of you to phone.’ The words were polite enough, but couldn’t quite disguise the weariness and disappointment in Oscar Balfour’s voice. ‘If it was just to say thank-you for last night’s party, I can assure you, there was no need.’

‘You credit me with rather more courtesy than I have, I’m afraid.’ Luis smiled, playing idly with the silken fringe on the overstuffed cushion beside him. ‘I wasn’t ringing to thank you, but to let you know that I’ve found Emily.’

‘Emily?’ Instantly Oscar was alert, and the rawness of the emotion in his voice almost made Luis flinch. ‘My God, Luis—where? Is she all right?’

‘Yes.’ He paused for a fraction of a second, thinking of the sharpness of her cheekbones, her bird-like fragility, the shadows beneath her eyes. ‘She’s fine. She’s teaching ballet to some inner-city kids in one of the charity projects I visited today.’ He thought it better not to mention the Pink Flamingo.

‘In town? Tell me where. I’ll get Fleming to bring the car and get there as soon as I can.’

‘No point.’ Getting up, Luis sloshed some whisky into a glass. ‘I’ve brought her down to my hotel for dinner. From what I gather in the papers you have enough on your plate today already. Let me talk to her, and I’ll update you tomorrow.’

Oscar hesitated, and when he spoke again he sounded old and uncertain—a million miles from the elegant patriarch of one of Britain’s most celebrated families, the powerful businessman at the helm of a billion-dollar empire. ‘All right. As you say, I have a few things to sort out here. You’ll probably handle her a lot better than I can anyway.’ He sighed heavily. ‘We had an argument, when Mia arrived, and afterwards she completely cut herself off from me. That’s what kills me, Luis—she just wouldn’t talk to me at all. I didn’t push it. Lillian was dying—’

His voice cracked, and Luis took a large swig of whisky while he waited for him to continue. ‘Nothing else seemed important. I thought that afterwards…when Lillian was gone I’d have time to talk to Emily, explain about Mia. But I didn’t get the chance. She left the day after the funeral.’

‘Did she give you any clue that she was going?’

Oscar gave a ragged, humourless laugh. ‘That was the hardest thing of all. Her leaving was so complete and so unexpected. No drama, no big scene. She just…did it—severed all her ties with us completely. She didn’t take anything with her—only her ballet things and the clothes she was wearing. She even left her mobile phone, which was a very obvious way of letting me know she didn’t want any further contact.’

Luis frowned. ‘She was serious about not being found, then.’

‘Oh, yes. But that’s Emily. She doesn’t do anything in half-measures. Never has. Whatever she does she does passionately, with her whole heart and soul. I’ve always admired her for that—I suppose it’s what made her do so well at dancing—but the trouble is she applies the same rigorous standards that she expects from herself to those around her. I’ve let her down—it’s as simple as that. She thought I was decent and honourable, and now she’s found out that I’m not.’

Luis let his eyelids flicker closed for a second. ‘None of us are,’ he said savagely.

‘Lillian was,’ Oscar said simply, ‘and Emily is so like her. She’s good, through and through. But strong too. She’d do anything for the people she loves.’

The memory of the little girl on stage earlier came back to Luis—the way Emily had taken her hand and danced alongside her, giving her the courage to carry on.

‘I’m sorry.’ Oscar’s rueful voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I’m boring you to death. Look, Luis, I’m so relieved that you’ve found her and that she’s all right. That’s the main thing, but if you could…’

The sentence trailed off. ‘Yes?’ Luis prompted. ‘What would you like me to do?’

Oscar laughed despairingly. ‘I was going to say, if you could make her understand…but of course that’s unreasonable.’

Meditatively, Luis swirled the dark amber liquid round in his glass and then drained it in one mouthful. ‘We’ll see, Oscar. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Luis. I’m grateful.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘You’ll be all right here, Miss Balfour?’

Standing blinking in the doorway, Emily looked around the opulent room in front of her, and then turned to look at Tomás in alarm. ‘I—I don’t understand…whose room is this?’

‘Yours, Miss.’ Tomás’s tone was soothing. ‘Since you’re so tired His Highness thought you might like a chance to freshen up before dinner. Maybe to have a bath and relax a little before eating?’

Emily regarded the elegant antique furnishings, the soft lighting, the vases of flowers, warily, wondering what the catch was.

‘Where is Lu—His Highness?’

‘The Prince has a suite on the floor above, Miss Balfour. He’s in there right now having a drink and making some phone calls. Would you like me to ask him to come down when he’s finished?’

‘Oh, no, thank you,’ Emily said hastily. ‘No, it’s fine. I’d love to have a bath.’

If only to put off the moment when she’d have to face Luis Cordoba over the dinner table, she thought, stepping forward and feeling her feet sink into the thick pile of the cream carpet. The room was huge, decorated in a classic English country house style which—apart from the addition of a Victorian-style bath standing on a raised platform in front of the huge French windows—was poignantly reminiscent of Lillian’s pretty bedroom at Balfour. Or at least how it had been before the paraphernalia of illness had crept in to spoil its carefully designed scheme.

‘Very good, Miss Balfour. Perhaps you could phone down to reception when you’re ready? One of our staff will be there to accept the message.’ Tomás left, quietly shutting the door behind him, and Emily wandered slowly over to the dressing table, running her fingers along its polished surface as if in a dream.

She leaned forward, looking into the mirror, where her own eyes stared back at her—smudged and dark with exhaustion. She was so tired, maybe it was a dream. Maybe she’d wake up any minute and find herself back in the narrow, lumpy bed in her bedsit, beneath sheets from which no amount of trips to the launderette could remove the smell of damp…

But then she remembered Luis Cordoba was waiting for her and felt her stomach clench with painful unease that left her in no doubt that she was wide awake. Compared to where she’d just come from this place might look and feel like paradise, but it certainly wasn’t without its serpents.

She straightened up quickly, tugging the band from the end of her plait and loosening her hair with shaking fingers.

She’d been stupid to let her guard down by falling asleep in the car, but just for a moment it had felt so wonderful not to have to think any more. She was so tired of thinking, and the relief of having someone come along and take over, tell her what was going to happen and what she had to do, was profound.

It’s just a shame that that someone was a shallow, untrustworthy playboy whose interest in women extended only as far as the bedroom, she thought, crossing the room to where the bath stood in decadent splendour. Although today he hadn’t actually shown so much as a flicker of interest in her, she reflected miserably as she turned on the taps and remembered the cool, dismissive way he’d looked her over.

She stripped off quickly, wincing as she pricked her finger on the safety pin that held up the black skirt she’d bought in a charity shop. She threw it onto the bed, where it looked more depressingly cheap and nasty than ever against the silk coverlet and the smooth Egyptian cotton sheets. Quickly she reached for the hotel bathrobe that was folded, fat as a cushion, on the end of the bed and put it on, wrapping its miraculous softness around her too-thin body.

She could hardly blame him for not being interested in her.

Even she was repelled by the jut of her hipbones, the hard ridges of her ribs beneath her skin, so she had no illusions about anyone else feeling differently. Especially not a connoisseur of the female form like Luis Cordoba. Call me when you grow up, he’d taunted. But she hadn’t just grown up in the past year. She’d grown old.

The bath was full. Turning the taps off Emily shrugged off the bathrobe and hastily slipped into the water, lying back so that it covered her body completely. Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, savouring the exotic, expensive fragrance of the designer bath oil and trying to refocus her thoughts. It was criminal to let anything spoil this moment of rare luxury. Sinking farther down in the deep water she exhaled again, feeling some of the tension that had taken up permanent residence in her shoulders lately ebb away, and with it a little of her iron-hard resolve.

God, she missed the physical comforts of her old life at Balfour. The day after Lillian’s funeral, when she’d walked out with nothing but a heart full of hurt and a head full of moral indignation, if she had known what she was letting herself in for she might have hesitated for a second before slamming that imposing door behind her. Her leaving was hardly planned, it was simply a logical response to what she’d come to consider an intolerable situation. She needed time and space to come to terms with what had happened, and she’d imagined going to London, getting a place in one of the major ballet companies there, and finding herself a pleasant, sunny flat in an area where popping out to buy a pint of milk wasn’t an extreme sport…

In other words, behaving like a grown-up.

How naive she’d been. Sheltered from reality by the Balfour wealth, she hadn’t even known how much a pint of milk cost.

She had easily got auditions with three ballet companies, but it seemed that the months of grief and turmoil had taken their toll in ways she couldn’t have begun to anticipate. Each audition passed in an excruciating embarrassment of clumsy footwork, mechanical arm movements and missed timing. It was as if she had lead weights inside her, pulling her down. As if she was trying to dance with a heart full of cement.

She had failed to win a place with any company.

After that nothing seemed to matter much. She had lost everything she cared about, and it simply became a matter of survival, which meant finding somewhere to live and a means of income. The advertisement for the job at the Pink Flamingo had caught her eye because it contained the word dancing.

It was only as she’d stepped into the beer-and-nicotine-scented gloom when she’d gone to see about the job that she realised what kind of dancing it was. Horrified, she had told the oily man into whose seedy office she was shown that she had made a mistake, but after running his eyes shrewdly over her he had offered her a job behind the bar.

Realising she had no choice but to accept it had been one of the lowest points of her life.

But she wasn’t going to think about that now. She had survived the past two months by using the self-discipline she had acquired during her years at ballet school to block out the bad stuff and focus on small pleasures and triumphs: sharing a coffee with Kiki in Larchfield’s shabby kitchen, seeing the pride on the faces of the little girls in her ballet class when they learned a new position. And now this…relaxing in a warm, scented bath as the twilight deepened beyond the windows and the scent of gardenia filled her senses. This was bliss. Heaven. In fact the pleasure of the moment was so exquisite that it almost made the past two miserable months worth it, just to feel this good.

She breathed in again, lifting her feet out of the water and resting them on the edge of the bath, flexing her toes and feeling the taut muscles in her insteps soften. The only sound was the trickling of the water, and the soft sigh of her own breathing, and she suddenly realised how much she’d missed silence. At Balfour she had taken that—like so much else—completely for granted. She simply hadn’t realised what a luxury it was to lie in bed and not be kept awake by cars revving their engines in the street below, by people shouting and the noises of fights and drunken laughter.

She closed her eyes, steadying the rhythm of her breathing, emptying her mind and consciously relaxing her body. Her chin sank beneath the water as the tension ebbed from her neck. She should probably get out, she thought distantly, but it felt too good just to lie there. She inhaled, exhaled, slipping farther down in the water, losing herself in the swirling darkness behind her closed eyes as warmth and peace enveloped her, and she finally felt safe enough to let go…

She came to the second her nose touched the water. Instinctively sucking in a breath she was suddenly choking on water, gasping and spluttering as her lungs filled, flailing wildly as she struggled to raise herself upright.

Someone was holding her, lifting her high out of the water. Angels? She waited for the moment when she would look down and see herself lying there in the bath, but her body felt all too present as she felt the iron-hard chest she was being held against, and the tawny tiger’s eyes that were looking down into her face were a far cry from angelic.

She wasn’t dead, then.

It was much worse than that.

She was lying in Luis Cordoba’s arms, and she was stark naked.

She wasn’t dead.

Seeing her like that—so still, her hair floating around her face like seaweed, and not a breath or a ripple disturbing the mirror-flat surface of the water—he had felt a moment of panic, along with the painful stirring of memories long buried.

Dropping her slippery, glistening body unceremoniously onto the bed he turned to pick up the bathrobe she’d dropped on the floor beside the bath.

‘Here. Put this on,’ he drawled acidly. ‘There’s little point in bothering to save you from drowning if you then catch your death of cold.’

Still coughing, she sat up, bringing her long legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around them. Grabbing the bathrobe from him she clutched it against her. ‘Don’t look,’ she croaked, ‘Please…’

With elaborate courtesy Luis turned and walked over to the large windows, staring out into the blue dusk, his heart still beating sickeningly hard. ‘Considering you work in a lap-dancing club, isn’t the modesty a bit misplaced?’

‘I don’t dance there—I work behind the bar,’ she said through chattering teeth. And then she added almost in an undertone, ‘I don’t dance anywhere any more.’

‘Can I turn round now?’ Why did he feel relieved?

‘Yes.’

She was sitting huddled up against the bed’s plump, padded headboard. Her damp hair was pushed back from her face, emphasising the sharpness of her cheekbones and the shadows beneath her eyes. Eyes that were looking at him as if she were expecting him to tie her up and ravish her at knifepoint.

‘I’m sure I wouldn’t have drowned,’ she said miserably. ‘I would definitely have woken up when—’

Luis cut her off with a sharp, impatient sound. ‘Forgive me for not testing that theory. Next time I’ll wait until you’ve been under the water for a few minutes before I haul you out.’

And have one more life on his conscience.

‘There won’t be a next time.’ She drew the robe more tightly around her, pulled her knees more closely to her body, her eyes sapphire pools of anguish. ‘There shouldn’t have been a this time. What were you doing watching me in the bath?’

‘You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I came in,’ he said coldly. ‘I half expected to find you’d escaped through the French windows and bolted into the night, but I wasn’t prepared for a suicide bid.’

‘It was not—’ she retorted hotly, and was about to argue more when there was a knock on the door.

‘That’ll be dinner,’

‘Dinner? But—’

She sprang to her feet as two pretty room-service staff brought in cumbersome trolleys laden with silver-domed dishes and, with much blushing and fluttering of eyelashes, asked Luis where he’d like them. He ignored the obvious double entendre that would have sprung from his lips without a second thought in his old life. ‘Obrigado. Just leave them there,’ he said, with the briefest of smiles before turning back to Emily. ‘You seemed too tired to want to go down to the restaurant. I thought you’d prefer to eat up here. Is that OK?’

Emily tried not to let the shock that ricocheted through her show on her face. She waited until the door had closed behind the pretty waitresses before turning to him, unable to keep the outrage from her voice. ‘No, it’s not OK! It’s impossible. I bet they think that we’re…’ She could feel a tide of colour wash into her cheeks. ‘That we’ve…’

Utterly unmoved by her discomfort Luis was already uncovering dishes and pouring wine. ‘Just had sex?’ he suggested.

‘Exactly!’

‘Frankly, querida, I doubt it.’ Coming towards the bed with a plate of smoked-salmon sandwiches and two glasses of wine Luis smiled lazily, but his eyes were cold. ‘If we had you wouldn’t be so bad tempered. Now, come and eat.’

She watched in alarm as he swung his long legs onto the bed and leaned back against the pile of pillows. ‘B-but I’m not dressed,’ she stammered.

‘Believe me, you look a lot more respectable like that than in that awful cardigan.’

She took a deep breath, determined to rise above his taunting. ‘Look, I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want—’

But Luis cut her off, his voice suddenly edged with steel. ‘The thing is, amada, right now I’m not overly bothered about what you want. This isn’t just about you, I’m afraid. It’s about your family. Your father. He’s just lost his wife—do you really think now was a good time for him to cope with losing a daughter too?’

Emily gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I think it was the perfect time, since he’d just gained another one to take my place.’

Luis speared her with his gold-flecked eyes and nodded slowly. ‘I thought as much. This is about Mia, isn’t it?’

‘No. No, it’s not about Mia at all,’ Emily said despairingly, sinking down onto the bed, as far away from him as possible, and taking a huge mouthful of wine. As its heat stole down inside her she could feel her defences slipping, melting away like snow in the glare of the sun. After two months of bottling it all up the urge to talk was suddenly overwhelming. ‘I have nothing against Mia herself—she seems very sweet. It’s hardly her fault.’

‘What’s not her fault?’

Pain knotted in Emily’s throat, making it difficult to swallow the mouthful of smoked-salmon sandwich. ‘That my father—sorry, our father—’ she corrected, her voice dripping with irony ‘—was so weak and stupid that he had a meaningless one-night stand with a woman he’d never met the night before his wedding and got her pregnant.’

She waited. Waited for his expression of surprise at this revelation about Oscar Balfour—irre-proachable pillar of the establishment.

It didn’t come.

‘No,’ he agreed nonchalantly, taking another sandwich and devouring it in one bite. ‘Accidents happen. You certainly couldn’t blame Mia for the circumstances of her own conception. Anyway, what does it matter now? Oscar still married your mother and remained happily married to her for—what—twenty years?’

She frowned, staring down at the crust of bread between her fingers, crumbling it into tiny pieces. ‘But it was based on lies,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘A good relationship can only be based on trust and truth. Love means not having secrets from someone, not having to hide anything.’

‘Does it really?’ he said softly, and with infinite scorn, as if what she had said was utterly facile. ‘And what if there are things the other person would be better off not knowing?’

She lifted her head, forcing herself to look at him. ‘Better for them, or better for you?’

He looked back at her. His eyes were narrowed, but for a fraction of a second she thought she saw something in them that was almost like uncertainty. ‘Better for you both.’

‘You have to trust the person enough to forgive you,’ she said, emotion turning her voice husky. ‘You have to give them a chance.’

He turned his head away from her and looked down. A lock of hair fell down over his eyes, making him look suddenly strangely unguarded. Emily felt a painful lurching sensation in her chest.

‘And your father didn’t do that?’ he said tonelessly. ‘He didn’t tell her, even when Mia came?’

Emily shook her head, not wanting to remember those dark days after Mia had shown up. Days that slipped by like sand in a bottle. ‘My father told us all to make sure she didn’t suspect a thing.’ She gave a bleak smile. ‘Mia pretended to be the new housekeeper, which wasn’t a great start to her life as a Balfour, but Mum had such little time left by then.’

Luis shrugged, leaning over to pick up the wine bottle from the bedside table. ‘There you are, then. At least he spared her the pain of finding out.’

‘What? So you think that makes it OK?’ Angrily she snatched her glass away just as he was about to fill it, so that wine spilled onto her bare legs.

A muscle jumped beneath the bronzed skin of his cheek. The room suddenly seemed very still. ‘I think it doesn’t alter the fact that your parents had a good, happy marriage,’ he said slowly.

Emily gave a snort of low, cynical laughter. ‘Oh, right. Your definition of a happy marriage being one where you can screw around as often as you like and it doesn’t matter as long as the other person doesn’t find out? What a lucky woman the future Crown Princess of Santosa is.’

‘That’s different.’ As if in slow motion she watched him reach out and catch the drip of wine that was running down her shin with his thumb. ‘When I marry it’ll be a business arrangement. Love will have no part in it, and I expect the future Crown Princess of Santosa will fully understand that.’

Emily turned to stone beneath his touch, terrified by the fire that was crackling along her nerves, like the fuse of a bomb. ‘A business arrangement?’ she rasped. ‘The terms of which will make it perfectly OK for you to sleep with whoever you like. And will she be free to do the same?’

‘As long as she’s discreet,’ he said softly, following the wet trail of the wine down her leg and over her ankle. ‘Jealousy is a nasty disease to which, thankfully, I’m completely immune. I’m a realist. Marriage fulfils a lot of needs—in my case practical, in your father’s case emotional. He loved Lillian, and one last fling before his wedding doesn’t alter that. It meant nothing.’

‘That’s the bit I don’t get,’ Emily said, forcing her mind to stay focused on the subject, and not on the sparks of pleasure his touch had ignited beneath her skin. ‘Why do it, then? Why have sex with someone if it means nothing?’

In the soft lamp light his face was beautiful but impossible to read. Thoughtfully he slid his hand beneath her instep, turning her foot round and studying it. Emily felt it flex helplessly, her toes curling downwards as if they had a life of their own. All the nerves of her body seemed suddenly to be concentrated in that foot, making it tingle as if with pins and needles. Distantly she remembered the sensation she used to get in her feet before a performance, how it felt as if they were coming alive.

‘If you have to ask the question you probably wouldn’t understand the answer,’ Luis said dryly, his thumb massaging her high arch. ‘Sexual attraction isn’t something you can rationalize, or sometimes even control. It’s called being human. Oscar might be your father but he’s still just a human being.’

‘I know that.’ Her voice was quivering and breathless.

‘And yet it seems to me that you want to punish him for it.’ He ran his fingertips over the hard, shiny calluses at the base of her toes, adding softly, ‘You have the most extraordinary feet.’

Sharply she pulled her foot from his grasp and stood, pacing over to the fireplace, desperate to get far enough away from him to think clearly—focus on the conversation they were having, not the very separate line of communication her body suddenly seemed intent on pursuing. ‘It’s not like that. I’m not punishing him. I just feel…betrayed. Everything feels like it’s falling apart…with my mother and Mia and now Zoe and that…that…stuff in the paper today. It’s like the whole family is damned or something—like some awful fairy tale where the wishes that the good fairy has given to the princesses turn out to be curses. The money and the good looks—they’ve just brought temptations that it seems no one can resist.’

‘Except you.’ He had got up and followed her to where she stood. Her back was towards him but in the mirror above the fireplace their eyes met and she felt her blood heat as he smiled right into them. ‘As I recall, you resisted most forcefully last year.’

‘Yes.’ She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. ‘Because I want more than that.’

He dropped his gaze, and she felt a split second of relief. But then he slid his hand beneath her hair and she stiffened again, gripped by emotions and sensations she couldn’t identify or control. Or resist.

‘Than what?’ He said softly, gently stroking the back of her neck.

‘Than quick…meaningless…sex.’ She gasped.

‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’ In contrast to her own voice, his was as smooth and slow and rich as sun-warmed honey.

‘And what makes you think I haven’t?’

It was a desperate attempt at bravado, but in the mirror she caught a brief glimpse of the golden gleam in his eyes as he bent his head and brushed his lips against her ear. Instinctively she flinched violently away from the thousand-watt electric shock that his touch sparked through her whole body.

He laughed softly. ‘That.’

Trembling, breathing as heavily as if she’d just run a marathon, Emily faced him. Cheeks flaming, she pulled the collar of the robe up around her neck and raised her chin defiantly and attempted what she hoped was a scornful laugh. ‘Just because I’m not willing to fall into bed with you the moment you click your fingers.’

Luis caught hold of the tie belt of the robe and pulled her gently towards him. ‘I see,’ he said gravely, wickedness glittering in the depths of his eyes, ‘you expect foreplay too, do you? Something like this…’

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could make the words come out his lips had covered hers and darkness had exploded inside her head, obliterating everything but him: the heat and closeness of his body, the scent and taste of him. She was shocked rigid, shocked into helplessness, unable to think, to respond sensibly. She should be pulling away, but all she seemed to be capable of was standing as still and stiff as Joan of Arc at the stake with the flames licking up around her…

Devouring her.

She was trembling uncontrollably, parting her lips beneath the firm pressure of his, opening her mouth to the gentle probing of his tongue. A whispered, shuddering sigh escaped her as he moved his mouth from hers and began to kiss a path downwards to the angle of her jaw and her earlobe, and the hand that had been resting on her hip slid across her midriff, making her quiver and gasp as the feelings that had haunted her unsettled dreams since that night at Balfour zigzagged through her again.