Читать книгу Best Man To Wed? - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 8
ОглавлениеSLOWLY, gravely, Poppy knelt in front of the bonfire that she had just constructed, oblivious to the damp seeping into the knees of her jeans, the dying rays of the evening sunlight turning her silky brown hair a dark, rich red and illuminating her in a beam of light as, head bowed, she carefully struck a match with such seriousness that she might have been igniting a funeral pyre.
Which in effect she was, Poppy acknowledged tiredly as she watched the kindling that she had carefully arranged start to burn, flames crackling as they ran from twig to twig, racing towards the wooden trinket box at their heart.
As she stood up Poppy had to dig her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans to prevent herself pulling the kindling aside and snatching the box to safety.
It was over, she told herself mercilessly, closing her eyes, unable to look, unable to watch almost a whole decade of ceaseless devotion and love being eaten up by flames. A sharp breeze sprang up out of nowhere, ruffling the silky curtain of her hair, scattering sparks from the fire, whirling-dervish-like, amongst its flames, teasing them, snatching from them a handful of photographs, most of them charred beyond recognition, only one of them still recognisable, the pale pink lipstick shape of her own mouth imprinted brightly across its surface.
Tears stung Poppy’s eyes, her heart twisting and aching with anguish as her emotions overcame her will-power and she stretched out helplessly to clasp the photograph which fate, it seemed, had decreed that she should not destroy.
As Chris’s beloved features swam before her, tears filled her eyes and she missed the photograph, the wind whirling it out of reach. With a small cry, Poppy tried to pursue it, but someone else reached it before her, taking it from the breeze’s playful grasp with mocking ease, a taunting expression crossing his saturnine face as he looked at it and then back at her.
‘James!’ Poppy said his name with loathing as he came down the garden towards her, still holding her photograph.
James might be her beloved, darling Chris’s elder brother and her cousin but no two men could have been more unalike, Poppy reflected bitterly as James stopped walking and studied her bonfire.
Whereas Chris was all sunny smiles, warmth and laughter, good natured, easygoing, an open, uncomplicated individual whom it had all been too heart-breakingly easy for her to fall in love with, James was just the opposite.
James rarely smiled, or at least not at her, and James was most certainly not good-natured, nor easygoing and certainly not uncomplicated; even those who liked and approved of. him, such as her mother, were forced to admit that he was not always the easiest person in the world to deal with.
‘It’s because he had to step into his father’s shoes whilst he was still so young,’ her mother always said in his defence.
‘He was only twenty when Howard died, after all, and he had to take full responsibility for looking after his mother and Chris, as well as the business.’
Her mother had to defend James because he was her nephew. Poppy knew that but she hated him, loathed him, and she knew that he reciprocated those feelings even if he cloaked his in a more urbane and taunting mockery towards her than she could ever achieve towards him. It shocked her that people who didn’t really know them always claimed that of the two brothers James was by far the better looking...
‘He’s very, very dangerously sexy,’ one of the girls who worked for the small family company which James had taken over on his father’s death had told her.
According to her mother, by hard work and dedication he had built the company into something far more impressive than it had ever been during his father’s day.
‘I’ll just bet he’s a real once-in-a-lifetime experience in bed,’ the girl had added forthrightly.
Poppy had shuddered to listen to her, thinking that if she really knew what James was like, how cruel and hard he could be, she wouldn’t think that. Personally Poppy couldn’t think of any man she’d want less as a lover, but then there was only one man that Poppy wanted to fulfil that role in her life...in her heart...in her bed, and there always had been.
She had been twelve years old, a girl just on the brink of womanhood, when she had looked across the table at her first semi-grown-up birthday party and fallen head over heels in love with Chris. And she had gone on loving him and hoping, praying, longing for him to love her in return, not just as his cousin but as a woman ... the woman. Only he hadn’t done so.
Instead he had fallen in love with someone else. Instead he had fallen in love with pretty, funny Sally. Sally, who was now his wife... Sally, whom Poppy couldn’t hate even though she had tried very hard to do so.
Chris and James didn’t even look very much like brothers, if you discounted the fact that they shared the same impressive height and breadth of shoulder, Poppy decided now, watching James in angry resentment. Whereas Chris had the warm good looks of a young sun-god, his floppy brown hair golden at the ends, his eyes the same blue as a warm summer sky, his skin a mouth-watering gold, James looked more demoniac than godlike...
Like Chris, he too had inherited his Italian grandmother’s warm skin colouring, but in James it was somehow harder, more aggressively masculine, bronzer than Chris’s softer gold, just as his eyes were a far harder and colder nerve-freezing light aqua—the kind of eyes that could chill your blood to ice from three metres away if they chose. His hair, too, was much darker than Chris’s—not black but certainly very dark brown, with dark flecks of burnt gold that gleamed like amber in the sunlight.
Poppy was not a complete fool; she could see that physically some women might be drawn to a man of James’s type, and that of his type, perhaps, as the girl at work had said, he was an outstanding example, but she could never find him attractive. There was his temper, an ice-cold, rapier-sharp, humiliatingly effective weapon of destruction onto which she had run in furious, blind hotheadedness more times than she could bear to remember, and his sarcasm, which could rip your pride to shreds like the mountain cougar’s velvet-sheathed claws.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded now as he walked towards her.
Mutinously Poppy glowered at him. He hadn’t looked at the photograph as yet and she itched to demand its return, her stomach muscles cramping with tension.
‘Mum and Dad are out,’ she told him ungraciously. ‘There’s only me here...’
‘It’s you I wanted to see,’ James told her urbanely, walking past her to squat down on his heels and study her bonfire.
Why was it, Poppy thought, watching warily, that such an action by any other man dressed as James was now—in an expensive, immaculately tailored business suit, highly polished shoes and a pristine white shirt—would have immediately rendered him ridiculous, but made James look completely the opposite? And why, she demanded irritably of life, should the bonfire—her bonfire—deposit its unwanted windborne detritus of smoke and sooty smudges in her direction and not his?
Life just wasn’t fair...
Fresh tears smarted in her eyes. Hastily she blinked them away just as she heard James commenting sardonically, ‘What exactly is the purpose of all this self-sacrifice Poppy? Not, one trusts, some immature and ignoble hope that out of the ashes of this maudlin act a new and stronger love for Chris will rise, like a phoenix, only this time one that he shares, because if so—’
‘Of course not,’ Poppy denied swiftly, too shocked by his contemptuous accusation to pretend not to understand what he meant—or to deny the purpose of the bonfire.
It was typical, of course; only James could make that kind of assumption about her motivation for doing something; only James would accuse her so unfairly.
‘If you must know,’ she told him bitterly, ‘I was trying to do what you’ve been telling me I should do for years, and that is to accept that Chris doesn’t... that he never—’ She broke off, swallowing hard as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her.
‘Damn you to hell, James,’ she swore shakily. ‘This has nothing to do with you... and you have no right—’
‘I am Chris’s brother,’ he reminded her crisply, ‘and as such it’s my brotherly duty to protect him and his marriage from—’
‘From what?’ Poppy demanded shakily. ‘From me...?’ Bitterly she started to laugh. ‘From me,’ she repeated. ‘From my love—’
‘Your love!’ James interrupted her, his mouth twisting. ‘You don’t even begin to know the meaning of the word. In the eyes of the world you might be a mature woman of twenty-two, but inside you’re still an adolescent,’ he told her crushingly, ‘with all the danger to yourself and to others that that implies.’
‘I am not an adolescent,’ Poppy denied furiously, angry flags of temper burning in her cheeks.
‘The way you can’t control your emotions says that you are,’ James corrected her coldly. ‘And, like an adolescent,’ he continued bitingly, ‘you positively enjoy wallowing in your self-induced misery, the self-aggrandised “love” you claim you feel for Chris. But you, of course, being you, have to drag everyone else into the plot as well.’
‘That’s not true,’ Poppy gasped furiously. ‘You—’
‘It is true,’ James told her grimly. ‘Look at the way you behaved at the wedding... Do you think that a single person there didn’t know .what you were doing, or how you felt?’
‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ Poppy protested, her face as white now as it had been red before.
‘Yes, you were,’ James told her. ‘You were trying to make Chris feel guilty and to make everyone else feel sorry for you. Well, it isn’t people’s pity you deserve, Poppy...it’s their contempt. If you really loved Chris—really loved him—you’d put his happiness before your own selfish, self-induced misery.
‘You claim that you’re not an adolescent any longer, that you’re an adult. Well, try behaving like one,’ James told her witheringly.
‘You have no right to speak to me like that,’ Poppy told him chokingly. ‘You have no idea how I feel or what—’
She froze as James burst out laughing—a harsh, contemptuous sound that splintered the early evening air.
‘No idea...? My dear Poppy, the whole town knows how you feel.’
Poppy stared at him.
‘Nothing to say?’ he jeered.
Poppy swallowed painfully. People did know how she felt about Chris. She couldn’t deny that, but not because she had deliberately flaunted her feelings to make Chris feel guilty, as James had so unfairly claimed.
It was simply that she had been so young when she had first fallen in love with Chris that it had been impossible for her to keep her feelings hidden, and she had loved him so long that people were bound to have noticed. But she had never, ever, as James was claiming, used her feelings to try to manipulate Chris, or, indeed, anyone else, into feeling sorry for her.
Of course, she deplored the fact that people were aware of her love for Chris—why else on the evening when he and Sally had broken the news of their engagement to the family had she made a silent vow that somehow she had to find a way to stop loving him?
All right, so far she might not have been successful, but at least she had tried—and was still trying.
It should have helped, she knew, knowing that Sally was so right for Chris and that they were so very, very much in love; with any other girl but Sally she might have suspected that that gesture of hers in ensuring that Poppy was one of the trio who was tricked into catching Sally’s wedding bouquet had been, at best, a clear warning to her that it was time for her to find a man of her own and, at worst, a tauntingly vindictive underlining of the fact that she had lost Chris. But Sally was far too genuinely nice and warm-hearted to do anything like that and her motives, Poppy knew, had been completely altruistic.
That hadn’t stopped it hurting, though. And now here was James deliberately making that hurting worse.
‘How I feel... what I do is none of your business,’ was the only response she could manage to James’s taunt.
‘No?’ James gave her an ironic look. ‘Well, what is my business is the fact that you are employed by the company as a linguist and interpreter and, as such, I see that you’re down to fly out to Italy for the international conference next Wednesday.’
‘Yes,’ Poppy agreed listlessly. The previous year, when the conference had been arranged, she had believed that Chris would be representing the company at the conference, and when he had asked her if she would like to go too she had walked on air for days afterwards, her imagination fuelling wildly romantic and, she realised, looking back, totally impossible fantasies featuring the two of them.
The reality, she knew now, would be rather dif ferent. Even if Chris had still been going, the four days of the conference would be filled with meetings, whilst she would be called upon to use her language skills, both in verbal translations and paperwork, which from previous experience she knew would keep her tied to her hotel bedroom when she wasn’t actually attending the conference with the company’s small sales team.
‘The flight time’s been changed,’ James informed her. ‘I’ll pick you up here at six-thirty. I’ve got to drive past on my way to the airport, so—’
‘You’ll pick me up?’ Poppy interrupted him, shocked. ‘But you aren’t going. Chris...’
‘Chris is on honeymoon, as you very well know, and won’t be back for another week,’ James reminded her grimly, giving her a tauntingly sardonic look as he added unkindly, ‘Surely even you aren’t self-deluding enough to believe that he’d cut short his honeymoon to go to Italy with you? Or was that what you were secretly hoping, Poppy... secretly wishing he would do? My God, just when the hell are you going to grow up and realise that—’
‘That what?’ Poppy interrupted him furiously, fighting to control the way her mouth had started to tremble as she goaded James wildly. ‘Go on, then, say it. Say what we both know you’re just dying to say, James. Or shall I say it for you...?’
Her chin tilted proudly as she forced herself to look straight into his eyes without flinching. ‘When am I going to realise that Chris doesn’t love me, that he will never love me... that he loves Sally...?’ she said bravely.
She knew that her eyes were over-bright with betraying tears, but she couldn’t help it; her emotions were too strong for her, too overpowering.
‘Of course I know that Chris won’t be going to Italy,’ she told James tiredly, turning away from him as the box at the heart of her small bonfire suddenly crackled fiercely and was engulfed by flames.
The pain inside her heart as she watched it burn was so sharp and driving that she had to force herself not to reach into the fire and retrieve the box, shaking it from the flames. Inside it were all her precious, cherished memories and souvenirs of her years of loving Chris: the present he had given her for that momentous twelfth birthday when she had first fallen in love with him... the card he had sent her...the other gifts he had given her over the years.
Quite mundane, perhaps, in many ways, and certainly not the gifts of a lover; no doubt in James, for instance, the small, precious hoard that she had guarded so tenderly would only provoke derision and contempt, but to her...
Yes, she had known that Chris wouldn’t be going to Italy, but it had never occurred to her that James would be attending the conference in his place. She had assumed that someone else from the sales team would go instead. She frowned suddenly, something striking her.
‘If you’re going to Italy, you won’t need me there,’ she announced as she turned back to look at him. ‘You speak Italian fluently.’
As well he might, Poppy reflected ungenerously. After all, his grandmother on his mother’s side was Italian and both he and Chris had frequently spent summer holidays with their Italian relations. But whereas James had always been very fluent in the language, Chris had not absorbed it quite so well.
‘Italian, yes,’ James agreed coolly, ‘but this is an international conference, remember, and your knowledge of Japanese is required. So, if you were entertaining any ideas about spending your time mooning around daydreaming about Chris, I warn you that we’re going to Italy to work...’
‘You don’t have any right to warn me about anything,’ Poppy challenged him dangerously, inwardly seething with resentment at the fact that he had called her professionalism into question.
She was well aware how strenuously he had opposed her appointment to the post of interpreter and translator within the company, sneering that it was nepotism and that it would be cheaper to send such work out to tender.
She shouldn’t have been listening outside the office door when he and her mother had argued about her appointment, Poppy knew, and she really hadn’t intended to do so but had simply been on her way to see her mother.
However, what she had heard him say about her had made her all the more determined to prove just how wrong he was and just how valuable she could be to the company, and she had immediately put aside her own initial doubts about the wisdom of going to work for the family electronics business.
When her mother had first suggested that she did so, Poppy had been reluctant to agree, wanting instead to establish her independence, but the knowledge of how difficult it was proving for her to find a job by herself, coupled with the fact that she’d known she would be working closely with Chris, had overcome her scruples and she now firmly believed that in the short time she had been with the company she had proved her worth.
‘I know I’m going to Italy to work,’ Poppy added pointedly now. ‘After all, I’m not the one who...’
She paused, alarmed by the look in James’s eyes which told her that she had gone too far.
‘Go on,’ he invited silkily, his voice suddenly softly dangerous.
‘Well, I’m not the one with the family in Italy,’ Poppy blustered, shrugging.
‘Are you trying to say that I’m using the company to finance my own personal plans?’ James suggested ominously.
‘Well, you aren’t exactly involved in the sales side of things, are you?’ Poppy demanded aggressively. ‘The sales team—’
‘As managing director and chairman of the company, I am involved in everything,’ James told her softly. ‘Everything... Not so much as a paperclip disappears without my knowing about it, Poppy, you may be sure of that,’ he told her with a wintry look that made her colour up hotly as she remembered the occasions on which she had ‘borrowed’ company stationery.
‘And as for the sales team... On this occasion,’ he told her smoothly, ‘they won’t be coming with us.’
‘With us?’ Poppy stared at him in disbelief. ‘You mean it will be just you and me...?’ She couldn’t keep the horror out of her voice.
‘Just you and me,’ James confirmed.
‘I’m not... I won’t...’ Poppy began, and then stopped as James suddenly smiled at her gently...too gently, her instincts warned her as she wondered edgily if refusing to accompany him would be grounds for dismissal from her job. James was clever like that... sneaky enough too, and she knew how much he had always resented the fact that she was working for the company.
‘You’re the boss,’ she told him, attempting a careless shrug but suspecting from the narrow-eyed, glinting look of mockery that he was giving her that she hadn’t really deceived him.
Four days in Italy with James... She tried not to shudder. She couldn’t think of anything that came closer to her idea of purgatory.
She winced as a cloud of acrid smoke from her bonfire was suddenly blown into her face, making her cough and choke. As she stumbled clear of it, she saw that James was studying the photograph that he had snatched from the wind, and she could feel the hot tide of embarrassed colour starting to burn her face.
It was not the fact that the photograph was of Chris that bothered her; it was an old one taken when she had been fourteen and he seventeen. She had taken it herself, snatching it with her new camera at a family party, and had later, with great daring, had the original print blown up.
No, what was causing her whole body to burn with humiliated embarrassment was the fact that virtually the whole of Chris’s face, but most especially his mouth, was covered in tell-tale lipstick kisses where she had deliberately—oh, shaming to remember now—pressed her open lips with passionate intensity against Chris’s.
A wave of toe-curling, excruciatingly horrible embarrassment, more intense than any self-consciousness she had ever suffered before, poured through her with scalding heat. Her body tensed in readiness for James’s taunting laughter as she resisted the desire to compound her humiliation by reaching out to try to snatch the betraying photograph from him.
But, instead of laughing, James was simply looking from the photograph to her... to her mouth, she recognised with searing misery...and then back again...
Unable to bear the nerve-stretching silence of James’s clinical study of her any longer, Poppy gave in to temptation and did what she had promised herself she was now mature enough not to do—she darted quickly towards him, reaching out her hand to snatch the photograph from him. But as she reached him he realised what she was trying to do and grabbed hold of her with one hand, whilst retaining possession of her photograph with the other.
‘Let me go,’ Poppy demanded, all sense of restraint and dignity overwhelmed by the humiliation-fuelled anger that gripped her, her hands pummelling furiously against James’s chest as she writhed impotently against him, struggling to break free.
She had no chance of doing so, of course; her brain knew that even if her emotions and her body refused to accept it.
James was a good six feet two to her five-four and at least five stone heavier; add to that the fact that she knew perfectly well that he swam and ran regularly as well as practising the art of aikido and it was no wonder that her furious attempts to break free were doing more to exhaust her strength than his.
Even so, she still persisted, demanding through gritted teeth, ‘Let go of me... James... and give me back my photograph...’
‘Your photograph.’ Now he did laugh—a harsh, contemptuous sound that made her long to clap her hands over her ears to protect herself. ‘I suppose this is the nearest you’ve ever come to kissing a man with passion, isn’t it, Poppy? After all—’
‘No, of course it isn’t,’ Poppy denied untruthfully. She was damned if she was going to let James make her feel even worse than she already did.
‘No?’ James queried silkily, his eyes narrowing cynically as Poppy inadvertently looked up at him. ‘So who was he, then? It certainly wasn’t Chris, and yet, according to you, he’s the only man you’ve ever loved... the only man you could ever love...’
Poppy’s face flushed scarlet with fury as she realised that James was quoting back at her the impassioned words that her sixteen-year-old self had declared to him when he had asked her tauntingly if she had grown out of her crush on his younger brother yet.
‘No one you know,’ Poppy shot back at him furiously. ‘In fact...’
‘No one anyone knows, including you, is more like it,’ James contradicted her drily.
‘That’s not true,’ Poppy lied hotly.
‘No?’ James taunted her. ‘Well, let’s just put it to the test, shall we...?’
Before she knew what he intended to do, somehow he had shifted his weight and hers, so that she was momentarily off balance and forced instinctively to reach out and cling to him for support, whilst he took advantage of her vulnerability to tighten his hold on her, using not just one but both arms this time to imprison her against him, holding her so close that she could actually feel the hard, firmly muscled length of his thigh against her and the equally firm thud of his heart. ‘James,’ she began, automatically tilting her head back so that she could look at him and show him how angry she was, but her complaint died away in her throat as she saw the way he was looking at her... at her mouth... and her own heart began to trip frantically in a series of far too fast, shallow little beats that made her breathing quicken and her muscles tense, her lips parting as she tried to draw extra air into her suddenly oxygen-deprived lungs.
A small sound—a protest, a soft moan; even she wasn’t quite sure which—gasped its way past the locked muscles of her throat and was lost, stifled by the slow, deliberate pressure of James’s mouth against hers.
This couldn’t be happening, Poppy thought, her mind reeling with shock and disbelief. James’s mouth against hers, covering it, caressing it, possessing it...
Frantically, she tried to turn her head out of the way, panic flooding her body with a trembling agitation and a desperate need to break free, but James forestalled her, one hand still binding her firmly against his body whilst the other grasped a handful of her hair, twisting it through his fingers, and then cupped her jaw, imprisoning her beneath the growing pressure of a kiss that was making her feel increasingly vulnerable.
She could feel the strength in his fingers where they rested against her skin, their touch cool in marked contrast to the burning heat of her own flushed face, just as the steady thud of his heartbeat underlined the wretchedly fast race of her own.
She knew, shamingly, that she was trembling from head to foot, and she knew, even more humiliatingly, that James must know it too. She could feel his fingers sliding along her throat, stroking her skin gently... gently ... James.
Tears blurred her vision, burning behind the eyelids she refused to close as she glared her enmity into the cool, clear aqua of James’s unreadable eyes.
All these years of dreaming of Chris kissing her, Chris holding her, Chris’s mouth caressing and possessing hers, and now it had to be James who was turning what should have been one of the most treasured moments of her life into a mocking parody of everything that her first kiss of real passion should have been.
Was it really for this that she had refused dates and explorative teenage snogging sessions? Was it for this that she had held aloof from the sexual freedom that university could have afforded her? Was it for this that she had spent her nights and some of her days dreaming and yearning...? So that James could mock her and destroy her cherished fantasies with a cruel kiss that could only be designed to taunt her—a kiss that...?
Poppy stiffened as her brain belatedly recognised something that her traitorous senses had shamingly already seemed to acknowledge—namely that if it hadn’t actually been James, her loathed elder cousin, whose mouth was caressing hers she might almost...could almost....
Poppy gave an outraged gasp as she realised just why her lips, her mouth, seemed to be softening, yielding, almost enjoying the sensual contact with James’s, her eyes snapping fire when she registered the sudden, heart-stopping gleam darkening James’s as he finally lifted his mouth from hers.
Her legs felt oddly weak as she stepped back from him, Poppy recognised dizzily—and not just her legs either.
‘Well, whoever he was, if indeed he did actually exist,’ she heard James saying derisively to her, ‘he wasn’t a very good teacher. Either that or...’
‘Or what?’ Poppy recovered just enough to challenge him. ‘I wasn’t a very good pupil...?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
Poppy stared at him, caught between disbelief and suspicion, waiting for the taunting barb that she was sure was to come, but instead he simply stood there whilst her gaze dropped helplessly from his eyes to his mouth—in fact it might have been jerked there on strings which he controlled, so little ability did she have to stop its betraying movement.
‘Yes?’ she heard James murmur invitingly.
‘Give me back my photograph,’ Poppy demanded huskily, determinedly forcing her gaze back to his eyes, hoping that he would put the hot colour burning her face down to the heat of her bonfire.
But, instead of acceding to her demand, to her disbelief James tore the photograph—her precious photograph—into small pieces and then casually walked over to the now dying bonfire and dropped them into its burning embers.
‘You had no right to do that,’ Poppy protested chokily. ‘That...’
‘What else did you intend to do with it?’ James asked her. ‘It’s over, Poppy. Chris is married now. Accept it; he never loved you and he never will,’ he told her cruelly.
‘How dare you—’ she began.
But he stopped her, continuing bluntly, ‘And it’s time you grew up and accepted the truth instead of living in an adolescent fantasy world.’
He had started to walk away from her, to Poppy’s relief. Seeing him tear up her precious photograph and consign it to the bonfire had brought back all her earlier misery and despair and she knew that. tears weren’t very far away. She had humiliated herself enough without James seeing her cry.
He paused and she tensed as he turned round to look at her.
‘Don’t forget,’ he warned her, ‘I’ll pick you up at six-thirty on Wednesday morning. Don’t be late...’
