Читать книгу Sara Craven Tribute Collection - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 26

THE clouds had returned with a vengeance, and the North Sea was a sullen grey as they drove up the coast road.

There was silence inside the car, but not the companionable sort, born of long familiarity. The enclosed atmosphere simmered with tension, and some other element less easy to define.

Cory sat huddled into the passenger seat, staring rigidly at the white-flecked waves emptying themselves on to the banks of shingle.

She did not dare look at Rome, who was concentrating almost savagely on his driving.

The advance and retreat of the sea was like a symbol of her own life, she thought, pain twisting inside her. One moment she was being carried along on an inexorable tide of passion. The next she was abandoned, stranded. Left clinging to some inner emotional wreckage. And she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

Any student of body language, she thought, would take one look at her and say ‘defensive’. But they didn’t know the half of it. The faint lingering dampness of her camisole against her skin was an unwanted but potent reminder of the subtle plunder his lips had inflicted.

Her entire being was one aching throb of unsatisfied longing.

While being shut with him in this confined space was nothing less than torture.

She sat up with sudden determination.

‘Could you stop the car, please?—I’d like to go for a walk—clear my head.’ She shot a swift, sideways glance at his set, remote profile. ‘If that’s all right,’ she added.

‘Of course,’ he said coolly. ‘It’s a good idea.’ He paused. ‘Something we both need, perhaps.’

The wind was freshening, blowing in unpleasant gusts from the sea, and Cory took off the scarf knotted at her neck and struggled to tie it over her hair instead.

‘May I help?’ Rome came round the car to her side.

‘No.’ Her mouth was suddenly dry, her heart pounding as she thought of his fingers touching her hair, brushing against her throat. ‘No, I can manage. Thank you.’

He shrugged on the russet jacket, his eyes hard. ‘As you wish.’

He set off and she followed, picking her way across the sliding shingle, filling her lungs with the cold salt-laden air as she battled with the wind.

Apart from clusters of sea birds hunched at the edge of the sea, and a couple exercising a small dog in the distance, they had the long stretch of beach to themselves.

Rome strode ahead, apparently impervious to the chill of the wind, or the increasing dampness in the air, and Cory found she was struggling to keep up with him.

Hey, she wanted to shout. This is my environment, not yours. How dare you be so at home here, when I feel alienated of—a stranger…?

At the top of the shingle bank, the elderly hulk of a fishing boat had been left to end its days, and Rome paused in the shelter of its remaining timbers, shading his eyes as he stared out to sea, watching the progress of a solitary oil tanker on the horizon.

As she joined him breathlessly, he gave her an unsmiling glance. ‘How are the cobwebs?’

‘They didn’t survive the first minute.’ She leaned against the bow of the boat, steadying her flurried breathing and attempting to rearrange her scarf.

Rome resumed his scrutiny of the tanker, his expression unreadable. Silence hung between them.

Eventually, Cory cleared her throat. She said, ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

‘For what happened between us earlier?’ Rome shook his head. ‘We must share any blame for that.’

‘I didn’t mean—the kiss.’ And what a polite euphemism that was, she thought wryly, for all that had really gone on.

‘What, then?’ His mouth was hard and set.

She said steadily, ‘For bursting into tears all over you. I’m not usually such a wimp—I hope. It was just such a shock. The village looked just the same, so I’d convinced myself that Blundham House would, too. That it would still be there waiting for me, caught in some time warp, and that all I had to do was show up.’ She shook her head. ‘Stupid, or what?’

‘Unrealistic, perhaps. But I encouraged that by bringing you here. I should not have done so. I just—needed to get out of London, and I thought you did, too.’ He was still staring at the horizon, and his voice was bitter with self-accusation. ‘This whole day was a bad mistake.’

Hurt twisted inside her. She said quietly, ‘Rome—we both lost our heads for a while. But it’s no big deal, and it certainly isn’t irretrievable.’

His laugh was brief and humourless. ‘You don’t think so?’ He turned to look at her. ‘Cory, you can’t be that naïve. You must see it has changed everything.’

She tried to look into his eyes, but they were hooded, unfathomable.

She forced a smile. ‘Perhaps I’m due for a change.’

‘That,’ he said, ‘would be unwise.’

‘Then maybe I’m just tired of being sensible,’ she threw back. ‘But if you’re not—I can learn to live with it.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Dio, I wish it were that simple.’

Cory leaned her shoulder against the boat, needing its support suddenly.

She said huskily, ‘Rome—is there some—some reason why we shouldn’t be—together?’

She’d meant to say ‘someone else’, but found she couldn’t speak the words aloud.

He said bleakly, ‘Any number of reasons, mia cara. Do you wish me to list them for you?’

No, she thought with swift anguish. Because one of them could be another woman’s name. And more than she could bear.

That damned scarf was slipping again. She untied it, thrusting it into the pocket of her raincoat, glad to conceal the fact that her hands were shaking.

She said in a low voice, ‘And what if I said I didn’t care? That I want to forget the past and live just for the present?’ She bit her lip. ‘And let the future take care of itself.’

There was a tingling silence. Cory could almost feel the tension emanating from him.

He said, ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Cory. And you deserve better than that. You deserve a future.’ He flung back his head in sudden anger. ‘Dear God—what an unholy mess.’

She could taste blood from her ravaged lip. ‘Then—again—I’m sorry. And I’ll have to stop saying that.’

She looked past him at the sea, iron-dark now, like the sky above it. Saw a cloud advancing across the water, whipping up the surface like cream.

She said, ‘We should get back to the car. There’s a squall coming.’ She added carefully, ‘And, however it’s turned out, it was good of you to give me this day. I’ll remember it always. But I don’t think there should be any more of them. When we get back to London, we should say goodbye.’

He said harshly, ‘You think that’s possible?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Essential.’

And gasped as the sheet of rain she’d seen approaching arrived in an icy torrent which drenched them relentlessly within seconds.

Rome swore, and grabbed her hand. ‘Run,’ he ordered.

The rain swirled at them, driven viciously by the wind, as they stumbled back across the treacherous shingle, struggling to keep their footing. They were breathless and half blinded when they reached the car.

Rome thrust Cory into the passenger seat, then dived in beside her. They sat for a moment, listening to the roar of the wind and the fierce drumming of the rain on the car roof.

Rome reached into the glove compartment and produced a packet of tissues.

He said wryly, ‘For the moment, this is the best I can offer.’

Cory used a handful of them to blot the worst of the moisture from her face and hands. But she could do little about her hair, which was sticking to her scalp, and even less about her soaked clothing, now adhering clammily to her skin.

Even her eyelashes were dripping, she thought ruefully.

And Rome was in no better state.

She said doubtfully, ‘It might be quicker to go back by the motorway…’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, starting the car. ‘But I have a better idea.’

They drove back the way they had come. After a mile or so, Rome turned down a narrow lane.

‘Where are we going?’ Cory was shivering.

‘I saw a hotel signposted on the way here. I’d planned to take you there for tea. We’ll use their facilities to get dry instead.’

‘But we can’t do that. They won’t allow it.’

‘We have no choice,’ Rome told her coolly. ‘And nor do they. If we drive back to London in this state, we’re risking pneumonia.’

He drove in between two tall brick pillars and up a winding, tree-shaded drive.

Through the rivulets of water still running down the windscreen, Cory got an impression of a large creeper-clad building with lights blazing cheerfully from its mullioned windows.

Rome brought the car to a halt in front of the main entrance.

He said, ‘Wait here, while I see what can be done.’

Her lips were still framing another protest when he disappeared, leaving her with the beat of the rain for company.

Peering out through the streaked and misty windows, she could see a number of other cars parked nearby, and this heartened her.

If the hotel was busy, it wouldn’t want extra waifs and strays dropping in because they’d been caught in a storm, she thought, easing her wet skirt away from her legs with distaste.

But even if the hotel rolled out the red carpet for them, she still couldn’t go in there. Not with Rome.

The journey back to London was going to be difficult enough, and she didn’t want to prolong the remainder of her time in his company.

And spending even a few hours with him in a remote country hotel was bound to force on them the kind of intimacy she could never risk again.

Pneumonia, she thought, would almost be preferable.

She was so deep in her own unhappy thoughts that she was unaware of Rome’s return until her door was opened abruptly.

‘They can take us.’ He handed her a big coloured umbrella. ‘The porter will show you where to go, while I park the car. And I’ll even be the soul of chivalry and let you have the first hot bath.’

Cory stared at him. She said huskily, ‘You mean you’ve reserved a room?’

‘Naturally. We’ll need some privacy while our clothes are being dried.’

She said fiercely, ‘Our day out is over, Rome. I thought I’d made that clear. And I’m not signing off by joining you in some seedy hotel room that you rent by the hour.’

‘By the night, actually. Although it’s our own business how long we stay. And I’ve brought you here because we’re both very cold and very wet. This is dire necessity, Cory, not some elaborate seduction ploy.’

Her face warmed. ‘We can’t stay here. I won’t. It—it’s out of the question.’

‘Then you’re asking the wrong questions. Cory—don’t be difficult. It’s still pouring with rain, and I’m getting soaked again.’

She said stubbornly, ‘I want to go back to London.’

‘You shall.’ His tone was gritty. ‘But first I intend to have a bath, some food, and my clothes dried and pressed by the hotel valet service. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.’ He paused. ‘However, if you prefer to stay here, alone and dripping, and making yourself ill in the process, that is entirely your own decision. But in that case be good enough not to give me your cold.’

He paused again. ‘Don’t argue any more, carissima. I would carry you in, but the staff might get the wrong impression and give us the bridal suite.’

Cory gave him a fulminating look, and left the car with as much dignity as she could assemble at short notice.

The porter, small, balding and jolly, awaited her. ‘Good afternoon, madam, and welcome to Hailesand Hotel. What a shame about the weather.’ He relieved her of the wet umbrella. ‘We’ve put you in the Garden Suite, and it’s just down here.’

Cory found herself squelching down a thickly carpeted corridor. The porter threw open the door at the end with a flourish.

‘This is the sitting room, madam.’ He bustled around lighting lamps. ‘The main bedroom’s through that door on the right, and the bathroom’s opposite, with the other bedroom next to it. Not that you’ll need it, of course, but it’s nice for families.’

‘Yes,’ was all Cory could manage.

‘I’ll put a match to the fire, shall I? Make things cosier for you,’ he added with satisfaction as flames began immediately to curl round the kindling in the dog grate. ‘And if you leave your wet clothes in the bedroom the housekeeper will collect them for you. You’ll find complimentary robes in the wardrobe, and plenty of nice toiletries in the bathroom, so just relax and make yourself at home.

‘Your husband said you’d be wanting tea,’ he threw back over his shoulder on the way to the door. ‘Just ring down to the desk when you’re ready and I’ll bring it—and some more logs for the fire.’

‘Thank you,’ Cory said, feeling as if she’d been bowled over by a giant teddy bear.

‘You’re welcome, madam.’ He twinkled at her, and went out, leaving Cory to the confusion of her own thoughts.

Her initial reaction was thankfulness that they were in a suite, and not a double room. So at least she’d be able to maintain some kind of distance from him during their brief stay, she told herself painfully.

Her second thought was that if they had to stay somewhere while their clothes dried, this would seem the perfect choice.

Even without the fire the room would have been cosy, she thought, viewing the thickly cushioned twin sofas with their chintz covers which flanked the fireplace.

There was a small round dining table in one corner, and a bookcase crammed with a tempting selection of paperbacks.

The walls were hung with watercolours of local scenes, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere. Old fashioned French windows offered access to the gardens beyond. Or would when it wasn’t lashing with rain, Cory amended, with another shiver. Which reminded her what she was there for.

She eased her feet out of her shoes and peeled off her sodden tights, then padded across to the bathroom.

As she ran hot water into the tub, adding a sachet of freesia bath oil for good measure, she realised the friendly porter hadn’t exaggerated. The pretty basket of toiletries even had toothbrushes and paste.

The main bedroom was attractively decorated in blue, the faint severity of the tailored bedspread and plain drapes offset by a cream carpet lavishly patterned in forget-me-nots.

Was that a subtle hint? Corey wondered, as she stripped off her wet clothes and put on the smaller of the two cream towelling robes from the wardrobe. If so, it was unnecessary.

Eventually, she hoped—she prayed—she would be able to put the events of these few enigmatic days behind her. But not yet.

She put her discarded garments in the linen laundry bag she found in a drawer, but decided she would rinse out her own undies and dry them quickly on a radiator.

The robe was a perfectly discreet cover-up, but she’d feel awkward and self-conscious being so nearly naked in front of Rome.

For her own peace of mind, she needed more than one layer, she thought, her mouth twisting.

She took the other robe into the sitting room and draped it over the arm of the sofa, where he would see it, and placed the laundry bag beside it.

Then she went to have her bath, carefully turning the little brass bolt on the door first.

She lay half submerged in the scented bubbles like a mermaid on a rock. Except she felt that she was the one being lured to her doom, she thought, letting the water lap softly over her breasts and gasping a little at the sensation.

She had never been so aware of her own body before, nor of its unexpected capacity for pleasure.

But then, she had never before felt such overwhelming physical desire for a man as she did for Rome.

Not even Rob, whom she’d believed she loved, had been able to arouse such a fierce, unbridled need in her.

Perhaps if he had things would have been different between them, she thought, biting her lip.

But all that dizzying, aching passion for Rome had to be counterbalanced by the questions about him that remained unanswered.

It troubled her that she still knew so little about him. It genuinely shocked her that she’d been on the point of giving herself to a man who was still virtually a stranger to her. And who—one day, one night—would walk away, back to his own life. Leaving her bereft.

So the wise thing was to step back herself before she was tempted again. Before any real harm was done.

One of the nuns at her convent school had lectured the girls regularly on avoiding ‘occasions of sin’. And Sister Benedict would have placed Rome in that category without a second thought.

He was the occasion, the sin itself, and the ultimate need for repentance all united in one lethal package.

She knew the right thing was never to see him again, even if the anguish of it made her want to moan out loud.

But she wouldn’t sit at home brooding about what might have been. She would stop being so selective—so reclusive. She would do as her grandfather wanted. She’d go out and meet people, and somehow, sooner or later, she would find someone who would make this deep, aching hollow inside her disappear.

It was just a matter of time.

She shampooed her hair, rinsed out her camisole, briefs and tights, and folded them in a towel over her arm.

She combed her wet hair back from her face, and took a long objective look at herself. The sleeked back hair left her no defences at all, and she was all eyes and cheekbones, and soft vulnerable mouth.

But she couldn’t stay in here, as if she was clinging to sanctuary. Somehow she had to endure the next few hours—survive them. And to do that she had to confront the man in the next room, whether angel or demon. And she had to do it now.

She took a deep breath, then opened the bathroom door and went into the sitting room.

Rome was standing by the French windows, staring into the gathering darkness. He was bare-legged, and the sleeves of the robe were folded back, exposing muscular forearms. His skin looked very dark against the pale fabric.

He turned slowly and looked at her, his expression watchful, almost wary. She had the sense of strong emotion rigorously controlled. Of a battle that had been fought and won during her absence.

She had to resist an impulse to tighten the sash of her robe—to draw its lapels closer together.

Behave calmly, she adjured herself silently. Treat the situation as if it was normal. As if it’s not a problem.

She said, ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’ Then, shyly, ‘This—this is a lovely place. Log fires and tea on demand.’

He smiled faintly. ‘Give me ten minutes, then order some.’ He paused. ‘Our clothes will be a couple of hours, so I had them bring us a dinner menu. We can eat here.’

‘Oh.’ She couldn’t keep the note of dismay out of her voice, and his brows lifted mockingly.

‘The restaurant demands smart casual dress, cara,’ he drawled. ‘I doubt we would qualify. Also, we might be a little conspicuous.’

She said, ‘I was hoping we’d be on our way back to London before dinner.’

‘How eager you are to be off,’ Rome commented caustically. ‘You have a date tonight, perhaps?’

Cory did not meet his gaze. ‘No—just a life to get back to.’

He said softly, ‘Ah, yes, of course.’

He walked across the room, heading for the bathroom. As he passed Cory he bent, so that his mouth was almost brushing the delicate curve where her neck joined her shoulder, and inhaled with frank appreciation.

He said, ‘You smell—exquisite, mia bella. Like some rare flower.’

Her body stiffened with almost unbearable tension. She kept her voice level with an effort. ‘Thank you.’

She remained where she was until she heard the click of the bathroom door signal that she was alone.

Then she moved, like an automaton, to one of the sofas, and sank onto the edge of it, staring at the flames that were leaping round the logs. Consuming them. Burning them out.

Knowing that this could happen to her, too.

She thought, Oh, God, I have to be careful—so careful.

And found herself wondering if it was not already too late…