Читать книгу Savage Courtship - Susan Napier, Susan Napier - Страница 4

IT WAS dark inside the big stone house but the lack of light didn’t hamper the man gliding silently up the narrow stairway. He moved with the sure-footed ease of someone used to exploiting the full potential of his subsidiary senses. He hadn’t needed to be able to see to quietly open the locked front door, double-shrouded in the night-shadow of the portico, and once inside he had found the stairs by instinctively measuring his stride, shifting his double burden to his right hand so that he could plot his upward progress on the smooth banister-rail with his left.

At the top of the stairs he strode confidently into the inky blackness, mentally centring himself between the pale walls to avoid the occasional dark lump of furniture that jutted out into the narrow passageway. Several metres down he turned abruptly to his left, reaching down for a low door-handle and entering the room beyond without even breaking his stride.

When he closed the door behind him the darkness was almost complete and after the briefest of hesitations he walked over to the far wall where he grasped a handful of thick fabric and dragged it aside, revealing a row of narrow windows that overlooked a small, starlit black lake. The smooth yet shifting reflective surface was oddly disorientating, the familiar beacon of the Southern Cross glinted up at him from below, as well as tracing its unique pattern of stars across the midnight vault of heaven.

His hand slowly fisted and then relaxed against the window-frame and, as if the simple action had pumped all the tension out of his body, he slumped, uttering a long sigh of relief as he set the hard, slim case and its soft-sided companion carefully on the floor beside him. He leaned against the windowsill for long moments, an obscure silhouette of dark on dark, his forehead resting against the cool glass. Then, with another sigh, he shrugged himself upright again, rolling his head around on his shoulders in the universal gesture of exhaustion, rubbing his neck with his hand as his soft-soled black shoes padded across the polished wood floor towards a second, shadowy door.

Benedict Savage narrowed his eyes to protect himself against the initial dazzling burst of light in the small bathroom as he flicked on the switch by the door and then leaned over and spun the shower tap to the pre-set pressure and temperature he preferred—strong and almost unbearably hot. He took off his tortoiseshell-framed spectacles and tossed them carelessly on to the marble vanity unit as he rubbed the narrow bridge of his nose.

He couldn’t remember ever having felt this bone-weary before—perhaps because usually any tiredness on the return trip to New Zealand was masked by the sense of euphoria generated by the completion of yet another commission. This time the euphoria had been riddled with an indefinable dissatisfaction that had infuriated him, since the work he had produced had been arguably the best of his success-studded career. Perhaps he had just worked too hard for too long on this one—had wanted it too much. There was bound to be a feeling of anticlimax, especially since he had nothing half as exciting lined up to tackle next.

Benedict shook his head to try and clear the miasma of exhaustion that thickened his thoughts.

He stripped off his tailored suit and ultra-conservative shirt and tie, tossing the separate pieces carelessly across the willow-cane hamper in the corner, a grim smile touching his thin mouth as he contemplated the possibility that age was starting to catch up with him. Tomorrow was his thirty-fourth birthday and, although he was confident that he was still at the peak of his intellectual abilities, perhaps his body was telling him it was time to ease up on a relentless regime of travel-work-travel.

This particular flight across the world had been a nightmare of foul-ups and delays, and he had come perilously close to losing his famed cool. That more than anything told him that it might be time for a serious assessment of his priorities.

Benedict stepped into the shower, glancing briefly at his reflection in the steamy mirror as he pulled the glass door closed, noting with a clinical satisfaction that he didn’t look as wretchedly jaded as he felt. The eyes that felt gritty and bloodshot were their usual cool, clear blue and he had the kind of olive complexion that didn’t readily show the lines of tension that he could feel pulling tightly beneath his skin. His short-cropped black hair might be streaked with premature grey, but his body was as lean and hard as it ever had been, thanks partly to genetics but mostly to his habit of never taking up residence in a hotel or apartment block that didn’t have a swimming-pool. His days always started with a mile of laps, the solitary rhythm soothing his mind as it sharpened his muscles.

The hot shower did its job, loosening his aching joints and easing the tightness in skin desiccated by aircraft air-conditioning. His thoughts drifted on a pleasant plateau of mindless fatigue. He stepped out of the shower cubicle and blotted himself roughly with the thick white towel from the heated towel-rail, too sluggish to notice its faint dampness. Dropping it lazily underfoot, he flicked off the light and padded back into the bedroom, rubbing his strong fingers across his sandpaper jaw, grateful that there was no reason to have to shave again before falling into bed. More than one woman had commented on the intriguing contrast between a beard that grew so quickly and his hairless chest.

He snapped on the standard lamp by the window and opened the casements, enjoying the warm flow of fresh air over his damp skin. Auckland in late March could be chilly, but tonight the region was still palpably in the grip of sultry summer. He stretched, slow and hard, prolonging a shuddering yawn as he savoured a pleasurable sense of anticipation. He removed his steel Rolex and dropped it on to the pristine white blotter on the desk which also served as a dressing-table. The prospect of sliding his naked body between cool, crisply smooth sheets was disconcertingly alluring, given the fact that the only limbs waiting to enfold him there were the celibate arms of Morpheus. Perhaps he really was getting old!

He turned, a wry curve of self-derision on his lips, and froze.

The high, wide single bed was already occupied.

The pool of light spilling across the floor from the lamp behind him barely reached the blanket trailing off on to the floor but the general illumination was enough to show him that his crisp, tight, pristine sheets were a tangled memory. A woman lay sprawled on her stomach in his bed, one arm splayed across the rumpled sheet towards him, the other folded in at her side, her hand disappearing into the tawny froth of hair that rippled across her shoulders, glinting in the subdued light with the lustre of old gold. Her face was well and truly buried in one of Benedict’s rare, private self-indulgences—the super-size down pillows with which he furnished his beds.

He closed his eyes and shook his head sharply, sure that what he saw must be a fatigue-induced hallucination.

He looked again, moving hesitantly towards the bed, still unwilling to trust the evidence of his weary, less than perfect eyesight.

As he got closer he could see the slow rise and fall of her back and hear the faint snuffle made by her breath on the pillow. She was definitely real.

Above the white cotton sheet which draped in modest folds over her hips and legs she wore a wisp of white satin, although judging from the turmoil of the rest of the bed any modesty was purely accidental. One thin white strap had straggled almost entirely off the arm tucked against her body and the consequent lop-sided sagging of white satin revealed a long, breathtaking sweep of graceful back sheathed in lustrously smooth-textured skin the colour of dark honey.

A powerful outrage gripped Benedict. It didn’t even occur to his befuddled brain to question who she was; all he felt was a furious sense of betrayal. His precious privacy had been invaded!

This was his bed, his room, his home, God damn it! No matter that he had never called it such before, nor that it was only one of a number of residences he maintained.

And, hell, he was tired! All he wanted to do was sleep. Was that too much to ask in a man’s own home?

Most infuriating of all was the fact that neither the shower nor the light had woken the feminine invader. Where he desperately longed to be she was already—fathoms deep in contented slumber. Well, not for long!

He bent over and growled savagely, ‘Wake up, Goldilocks; Papa Bear wants his bed back.’

There was not a flicker of response. The allusion that had sprung unconsciously to his lips was ridiculously apposite, he thought as he straightened and glimpsed himself in the mirror of the dressing-table on the other side of the bed. Not only was he feeling emotionally bearish...he was physically bare as well!

The little nip of sardonic humour restored a small measure of Benedict’s normal equilibrium. He suddenly realised that waking up to find a stark-naked man looming over her was more likely to fling his mystery guest into hysterics than prompt a meek departure. The last thing his exhausted mind and body needed right now was to get involved in a dramatic scene.

He turned, intending to fetch his bathrobe from the hook in the bathroom, when the muted burr of his cell-phone distracted him. Tired as he was he couldn’t ignore the siren-call of master to technological slave. He detoured to his briefcase and pulled out the humming unit.

‘So, are you home yet?’

Benedict raked his fingers over his cropped head as he recognised his friend and colleague’s distinctive American drawl. ‘Yes, Dane, just...and you won’t believe what I found!’

A lazy chuckle that was Dane Judson’s good-humoured trademark vibrated in his ear. ‘What do you think of her? Can I pick them, or what? Isn’t she the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?’

Benedict spun on his heel and stared incredulously at the woman on the bed. ‘She—I—you’re responsible for her being here?’ he stuttered.

His friend laughed and Benedict could hear the faint clink of bottle against glass in the background. ‘Uh-huh. Rendered you speechless, huh? I knew I’d do it one day. I just wish I could have been there to see your face, but I’m stuck here in Wellington until next week.’

‘But what in the—?’

‘Many happy returns for tomorrow, pal.’ There was the audible sound of a toast being drunk.

Benedict cleared his throat as understanding burst upon his sluggish brain. ‘This is your idea of a birthday present? For God’s sake, Dane—!’

‘Don’t worry, pal, it’s all pleasure and no responsibility,’ Dane gleefully misunderstood him. ‘You don’t have to look after her for keeps—she’s strictly on weekend loan. I promised you’d return her in perfect nick so make sure you treat her real lover-like—’

‘What—?’ Benedict moved jerkily back towards the bed, stunned by the revelation that the anonymous female body was there purely for his temporary delectation.

Another rolling laugh. ‘I keep telling you, all work and no play makes Ben a dull boy. And don’t tell me you’re not feeling jaded because I know you well enough to read the signs. You need to revitalise yourself with a little hell-raising and, believe me, this babe is guaranteed to loosen you up real fast. A few days with her and you’ll feel eighteen again...’

‘I wouldn’t wish a second time around as a teenager on my worst enemy,’ Benedict said sardonically, unconsciously lowering his voice as he leaned against the bedside cabinet, wondering what Dane would say if he knew that his outrageous birthday present had got tired of waiting to spring her surprise and was out cold. Benedict decided not to spoil his friend’s mirthful pleasure by telling him. ‘Let alone my best friend. I hesitate to inject a dose of unwelcome reality into your adolescent fantasies, Dane, but isn’t this kind of arrangement a bit unhealthy these days?’

Dane gave a whoop of delighted laughter. ‘Afraid you’ll have a heart-attack from the excitement? Come on, Ben—would I give you something that I thought would kill you? When was the last time you had some innocent, macho fun? A year? Eighteen months ago? Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. I had her thoroughly checked over inside and out and she’s in prime, A-1 condition—’

‘For God’s sake—!’ Benedict could feel the heat in his face, almost as if he was embarrassed on behalf of a woman who was obviously either a high-class call-girl or a free spirit who got her kicks out of having sex with total strangers. He knew it had been quite some time since his last relationship with a woman ended but he had been so absorbed in his work that he had never worried about his inactive libido. Not so Dane, it seemed, whose sex life was as active as his bizarre sense of humour.

‘Dane—’

‘No need to thank me, pal,’ his friend interrupted, ringing off with a breezy, ‘Just enjoy! And remember, it’s pumpkin time Monday morning...’

Benedict swayed slightly under another rolling wave of fatigue as he switched off the phone and placed it clumsily down on the bedside table. He struggled to keep his eyelids open as he wearily debated his options.

There were plenty of other beds in the house but his proprietary interest in this one was stubbornly acute.

Despite her apparent sprawl, his nameless birthday gift actually trespassed on little more than half of the bed, he noted, her left arm and hip neatly aligned with the far edge of the single mattress. He looked down at her outflung arm, at the long, slender fingers curled laxly over the edge of the bed. Her fingertips almost touched his hair-roughened knee. Gently he encircled her wrist and lifted the sleep-heavy arm, placing it neatly back against her side. There was now an inviting expanse of empty bed available. A man-sized portion, if the man was of greyhound-lean proportions...

Goldilocks slumbered on. She was amazingly still, except for that slow, sensuous ripple of breath down the long, beautiful spine. She made sleep seem like an enchantingly erotic experience and Benedict found himself wondering whether a woman who offered herself up so voluptuously to sleep would be equally hedonistic in her approach to lovemaking.

A lazy stirring of male curiosity piqued his jaded senses, his angry earlier resentment overwhelmed by the knowledge that if he cared to find out he only needed to wake her. She was his to command. He wondered if that fleecy gold hair was as soft as it looked, and whether the colour was natural. He wondered whether her front would live up to that matchless back. Even in the slackness of sleep he could see that her muscles were well-toned. Her waking movements would be strong and supple. He imagined watching that golden back arching and flexing in slow, indolent rhythm with the languid thrust of his hips. He’d take her slow and easy at first...and then...and then...

He looked down at his quiescent body in rueful self-derision. And then...nothing. His mind might be aroused but he was so exhausted he was physically incapable of doing his vivid imagination justice. If he got into bed with her tonight he would be sleeping with her in the strictly literal sense.

Waking up with her in the morning, though, was suddenly an enchanting prospect.

Oh, yes...after a good, solid sleep the birthday boy would be in far better condition to appreciate his very unexpected, and undoubtedly expensive present...