Читать книгу Love Islands…The Collection - Ким Лоренс, Jane Porter - Страница 66

THE WORLD WAS whirling pleasantly around her—oh, so pleasantly! Ellen felt herself swaying slightly, as if she were still dancing, humming a waltz tune, hearing her long silk skirts rustling. The ball was over, midnight long gone, and now she was back up in the penthouse suite. The orchestra was still playing in her head. And everything was wonderful! Oh, just wonderful! Her gown was wonderful, her hair was wonderful, the dancing had been wonderful, the evening had been wonderful!

Max had been wonderful...

She gazed at him now, blood singing in her veins. He was twisting open a bottle of water, looking so tall, so strong, so utterly devastating in his Edwardian evening dress, and her eyes just drank him in as the room swirled around her and the music played in her head and on her lips. All she wanted to do, all she longed to do, was to be back in his arms, dancing and dancing...

‘Drink this—and drink it all,’ Max’s deep voice instructed her as he came to her and handed her a large glass of water. ‘You’ll thank me in the morning, I promise you.’

‘I feel fine,’ she said. ‘Absolutely fine.’ Still, she gulped down the water, never taking her gaze from Max—wonderful, wonderful Max!

How gorgeous he is—how incredibly handsome and gorgeous and wonderful and devastating and...

Then she yawned—a huge, exhausted yawn. Her eyes blinked.

‘Time for bed,’ said Max.

But not, alas, with him. He knew that. The champagne, the wine, the liqueurs she’d drunk made that out of the question. Should he regret it? He shouldn’t, he knew, but he did all the same.

Maybe it’s for the best. That was what he needed to tell himself. Remind himself of all the complications that might arise were he to follow what he knew his body wanted right now...the new-found desire that had swept over him.

I want to celebrate her new-found freedom with her. I want to take the final step of her liberation with her. I want to be the man who does that—

Well, not tonight. Frustration could bite at him all it liked, but that was that. And he—he’d be back in his own bedroom in the hotel suite, heading for a cold shower.

But first he had a real ordeal to get through. One that was going to test him to the limits.

‘Hold still!’ he instructed her, catching the back of her shoulders to steady her.

It was a mistake, for the warmth of her bare skin under his palms was an unwise sensation for him to feel right now. He pulled his hands away as if burnt, made his fingers drop down to the fastenings of her dress instead. Thee mou, there were a million of them! As he started the finicky work of undoing them he could feel the effort of not thinking about what he was doing.

Don’t think about how her beautiful bare back is emerging...how she’s dropped her head, exposing the tender nape of her neck caressed by tendrils of her chestnut hair...how easy...how tempting it would be to lower your mouth and graze that delicate skin with your lips. No, don’t think about any of that—

He swallowed heavily, dropping his hands away. ‘Done!’

She turned, oblivious to the punishing, disciplined self-control he was exerting, her unfastened bodice held up only by her hands pressed to her half-exposed breasts, her feathered shoulder straps collapsing down her arms as well. A sigh of happiness, of bliss escaped her, and her eyes were clinging to his.

‘This has been,’ she announced, ‘the most wonderful night of my life.’

Her lips were parted, her eyes glowing, her face lifted up to his. She swayed towards him in the motion of a dance, with intoxication in her blood, unconscious invitation in her glorious goddess body.

And he was lost. Totally, completely lost. Could resist her no longer.

His hands fastened on her upper arms and he hauled her to him. Drew her smiling parted lips to his and took his fill. He could not resist it—just could not.

Tasting first, he glided his lips across the velvet softness of hers, taking possession of her mouth, tasting her bouquet like a rich, radiant wine. Then, as his kiss deepened, he opened his mouth to hers and she came with him—came with him every iota of the way—moving her mouth on his, opening to him, tasting him, taking her fill of him.

He could feel her full breasts pressing against the cotton of his shirtfront, feel her nipples start to peak, feel desire flare through her, fuelled by the wine in her blood, the champagne in her veins, the music in her head.

Hunger for her leapt in him, seared through him. He knew his body was surging, engorging, knew that desire and need and all that could burn like an inferno between a man and a woman was igniting within him now. Knew that in seconds the conflagration would take hold—unstoppable, unquenchable.

With a groan, he let her go, wrenching his mouth from hers, pulling his hands away, stepping back from her.

There was a dazed expression on her face, the bewilderment of loss in her eyes—her huge, widened eyes—and their pupils were flaring with desire, arousal...

He shook his head. Held up his hands. Stepped further back.

‘Goodnight!’ he said.

His voice was shaken, he could hear it, and he could feel the heat in his body still, the fullness still there, but he had to beat it back, subdue it. Whatever primal hunger was possessing him, he had to defeat it. To indulge himself now, when far too much wine and champagne was coursing through her, would be unforgivable.

For a second a stricken look was there in her eyes—a look that somehow pierced him like a stiletto blade in his throat—and then, like the sun coming out from a cloud, dazzling in its brightness, she smiled. Her face lit up once more.

‘Goodnight!’ she breathed. ‘Oh, goodnight!’

He backed to the door. He did not want to do this. Did not want to leave. But he had to. Had to get back to his room—had to get that cold shower sluicing down over his body...had to!

As he reached the door she lifted her hand from one side of her bodice, dangerously exposing yet more of her sweet, succulent flesh, a final torment for him, and then, with another dazzling smile, an insouciant, joyous gesture, she kissed her fingers and blew the kiss to him.

‘Thank you!’

They were the last words he heard before he got out through the door and pulled it shut, to keep him safe.

Safe from the only thing in the world he wanted to do right now...

Go right back in and sweep her into his arms.

Ellen was asleep, but someone was making her wake up. A hand was on her shoulder, gently shaking her. She shrugged it off, nestled back down into her pillows, but the hand returned. Someone said something to her, but she didn’t know what. It was foreign. Greek?

Greek!

She bolted upright, only just having the presence of mind to clutch her bedclothes to her, her eyes flaring open. Max Vasilikos, freshly showered—she could tell from the damp hair feathering his forehead and the towelling robe that emphasised the Mediterranean tan of his skin—was sitting on her bed.

‘How are you feeling?’ he enquired. His voice was urbane, equable—and amused.

She pushed her hair out of her face. It seemed to her to be softer than it usually was, and finer, and less heavy. She blinked, looking around her, dragging her gaze past the figure of the man sitting at the foot of the bed, with his dark eyes resting on her speculatively and a curve at his sculpted mouth that suddenly made her very, very aware of her state of dishevelment.

‘Um—fine,’ she got out.

Was she fine? she wondered. She blinked. Yes, she did seem to be OK. Memory came rushing back, tumbling into her head like a series of snapshots. The ball—that fantastic, gorgeous, wonderful ball! Chatting away to all those people over dinner. Dancing with Max.

Kissing Max...

Colour flared in her cheeks as memory flooded her, intense and vivid.

He kissed me! Max Vasilikos—the man who made me beautiful and waltzed the night away with me!

Max saw the colour flare and knew what she was thinking. It was what he was only too conscious of himself. His night had not been peaceful. It had been disturbed by dreams. Dreams in which there had been no need to tear himself away from the woman he’d been kissing.

No—don’t think about it now! Not when he was sitting on her bed and she was only a metre away from him, her naked body shielded only by the sheet she was clutching to her, her lush hair tumbling wantonly around her shoulders, her smeared mascara making her eyes smoky and deep...

He got to his feet, stepping away from the bed. Well away. ‘I’ve ordered brunch,’ he told her. ‘So have a wake-up shower and come on through.’

She nodded, and waited till he was well clear of the room before getting up.

It was strange, she thought as she caught her reflection in the mirror of the en-suite bathroom... She was so used to her body, so used to thinking it large and muscular and unattractive. And yet now— Her eyes held her own naked reflection. Saw it for the very first time not through Chloe’s eyes, but through someone else’s completely.

Max’s eyes...

Tall, with sculpted shoulders, taut arms, generous breasts, flat abs, toned glutes, strong quads, long legs. A goddess body?

And her face still held the beauty conjured from it by those skilful magic-making stylists last night. Her fingers lifted uncertainly to her hair. Whatever those chattering women had done to it, it was amazing. Its colour was so much richer, glowing in the lights around the vanity unit, and it felt so light on her head, yet it waved in lush tresses down over her shoulders, softening her face, her jaw, caressing her neck. She touched her mouth with her fingertips—elongated nails still crimson with varnish—and felt a smile part her mouth.

A goddess indeed...

She heard Max’s words in her head, felt his eyes on her, his hand on her spine as they’d waltzed.

The melody played in her head again. Happiness filled her. Whatever her worries, whatever her woes, this...this would always be with her now.

He made me beautiful.

He might be trying to take her beloved home from her, but he had given her something she had never thought to have—something that Chloe’s cruelty had taken from her, that her own self-doubt, self-criticism had let her stepsister take from her.

And Max—wonderful, wonderful Max!—had now restored it to her.

With a smile of wonder and gratitude still playing on her lips she piled her hair up, pinned it loosely, and stepped into the shower unit. Brunch beckoned—and so did the thought of seeing Max again.

Even if only for what was left of the morning.

A pang smote her. She swallowed as the hot water plunged down over her shoulders, rousing her to full wakefulness. Suddenly the thought of leaving him, of returning home to Haughton, seemed like the worst thing in the world.

But the ball is over—and it’s time to go home.

For the first time in her life she did not want to.

Max was already seated at the table when Ellen emerged. He was clad, like her, in a white towelling robe. Seeing him like that seemed suddenly very...intimate.

Into her head came the memory, vivid and real, of how he had kissed her.

Oh, she might have been intoxicated—with champagne and wine, with music and wonder—but that could not dim the searing memory.

Instantly she reproved herself fiercely.

It was just a kiss! Don’t make anything of it! It was only a kiss. It meant nothing—just a way to say goodnight.

Yet even as she told herself that she could feel the colour flare in her face. Busily, she sat herself down, hoping Max hadn’t seen. Didn’t know the reason for it.

It would have meant nothing to him—think how many women he’s kissed in his life! With looks like his...

And one of those women—the most recent—had been a film star. To a man used to kissing film stars—used to doing a whole lot more than kissing!—bestowing a goodnight kiss on her was...well, nothing.

But not to me.

Her eyes flickered a moment. No, it had not been nothing to her...

To me his kiss was the ultimate breaking of Chloe’s vicious hex. The one I gave in to—was too cowed to fight, to deny. I gave her an easy victory. A victory she revelled in!

Her expression steeled. But no more. Chloe’s cruel mental domination of her was over. She had to keep it that way.

She looked across at Max. His eyes were resting on her with an expression in them that was half glinting, half veiled. She met it square-on, refusing to let any self-conscious memory colour her cheeks. Then she looked at the lavish brunch spread out before her. She was instantly hungry.

‘Mmm...eggs Benedict. My favourite,’ she announced appreciatively.

She took a generous helping and got stuck in. Max was doing likewise—well, he had a big frame to fill, and muscle burned more calories than fat...not that there was a trace of fat about him. He was lean and powerful and devastatingly attractive, and the way the tan of his skin contrasted with the white of his robe, the way there was really quite a lot of chest exposed in the deep vee...

She gulped silently and focussed on her food.

‘No sign of a hangover?’ Max enquired. She didn’t look hungover in the slightest, and she shook her head, making her long wavy tresses resettle on her shoulders and waft around her cheeks. He felt satisfaction go through him. Those stylists had been worth their weight in gold! Even with all the make-up now scrubbed off, the changes they’d made were glaringly noticeable—most of all the taming of her fearsome, frowning monobrow.

She wasn’t frowning now at all. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘All that water you poured into me before I flaked out did the trick!’

‘I told you you’d thank me in the morning,’ he replied with a glint in his eyes.

She made herself look at him, pausing in her eating. ‘I do thank you,’ she said ‘I thank you for...for everything!’

She didn’t have to spell it out. He knew. He smiled at her down the length of the table. Then raised his glass of orange juice to her. ‘To the new you, Ellen—and may the old one be banished for good!

He took a draught of the juice, setting down the glass. ‘Now,’ he opened, sounding businesslike, ‘what we need to get done today is sorting out your wardrobe. Fabulous though you look in Edwardian costume, it’s not for every day,’ he finished lightly, with another smile. ‘So, when we’ve eaten it’ll be time to go shopping.’

A troubled look shadowed her face. ‘I really need to go home,’ she said.

Max raised his eyebrows. ‘What for? It’s not term-time—’

‘Yes, but... Well... I really ought to...’

He gave an airy wave of his hand. No way was Ellen going to beetle off back to Haughton and bury herself there again! Not yet—not by a long way! He hadn’t done with her...

Deep in his abdomen he felt an oh-so-masculine response kick in. He’d had to relinquish her last night—anything else would have been inexcusable—but the impulse he’d experienced then, the overriding rush of desire, had in no way been attenuated. His mind was made up—the long, sleepless, frustrated hours of the night he’d just spent had given him conviction of that.

A romance is exactly what she needs. It will show her how wonderful life can be if she just emerges from her shell, tastes all that life can offer now that she knows how beautiful she is. She can start to shed the burden of bitter resentment, knowing that her deep, dark, disturbing jealousy and envy of her stepsister is quite unnecessary.

And with that burden of resentment lifted—well, then she wouldn’t need to keep trying to thwart Pauline and Chloe by refusing to sell her share of Haughton. Wouldn’t need to keep trying to punish Pauline for marrying her father and Chloe for having the beauty she thought she herself was denied.

‘So,’ he said decisively, ‘it’s all settled. There’s absolutely no call for you to head off straight away, so we’ll definitely go shopping.’

She was still looking at him with a troubled expression. She wanted to tell him that even if she didn’t actually need to go back home today shopping for clothes was the last thing she could afford. Her salary was wiped out paying for her living expenses and Pauline and Chloe’s extravagances! But even as she thought it she felt rebellion stir. If they could fund their lavish lifestyle by selling off paintings from Haughton, well, so could she!

In the deep pocket of her robe she could feel the weight of the jewellery she’d worn last night, which she would hand back to Max as she must, however reluctantly...

A stab of anger bit at her, hardening her resolve. Her expression changed as she made her decision. Max saw it and was glad.

He was even more glad, later that afternoon, when she emerged from the changing room of one of the most upmarket fashion houses, finally looking the way her natural looks deserved.

It hadn’t been completely plain sailing—she’d balked as they’d walked in, a look of near panic on her face, and he’d had to steer her firmly towards the serried racks of clothes.

‘I don’t think there’ll be anything to fit me!’ she’d said nervously, her eyes casting about at the stick-thin customers who all seemed to be Chloe clones.

Doubt had suddenly assailed her. She’d been wearing, perforce, the dowdy old-fashioned suit she’d worn yesterday, and there, surrounded by elegance and fashion, she’d felt her fragile new-found confidence waver. Panic had bitten at her throat.

They’re all looking at me—wondering what on earth a lumpy frump like me is doing here! Wanting me to get out, to stop inflicting myself on their eyesight!

The old, painful, mortifying self-consciousness had come back, drowning her, trying to send a tide of humiliated colour back into her face. The urge to run out of the shop, to take herself off to the station, to rush back down to Haughton, seeking its refuge, hiding there in solitude, safe from condemning eyes, had almost overpowered her.

Then Max had spoken, ignoring her protestation. ‘This will suit you,’ he’d said decisively, reaching for a knee-length dress in warm caramel, soft jersey with a draped neckline. ‘And these.’

He’d taken a teal-blue dress and a tailored jacket off the rack. He’d handed them to her and then started sorting through the trousers, pulling out a black pair and a chestnut-brown pair, before picking up a couple of cashmere sweaters. He’d guided her to the changing rooms.

‘In you go,’ he’d said, and he’d given her the rest of the clothes and a gentle push. He’d had no intention of letting those chains start winding themselves around her mind again.

As she had headed, still reluctantly but obediently, into the changing rooms he’d beckoned to a sales assistant, giving her a particularly engaging smile. ‘We’re going to need a lot more clothes,’ he’d said, nodding at Ellen’s back.

The sales assistant had cast an expert eye over her, taking in the tight, ill-fitting suit. ‘Definitely.’ She had nodded and glided off, returning with a large selection of separates, plus shoes, belts and some costume jewellery.

With a smile at Max, who’d settled himself comfortably into one of the leather chairs conveniently placed nearby for attendant males, complete with magazines about cars and fitness to while away their time while they waited for their womenfolk, she had whisked them into the changing room.

It had taken quite some time for Ellen to emerge...