Second Tomorrow Page 3

  ‘Yes,’ Luke was saying, breaking into her reverie, ‘I like your dress very much . . . but it wasn’t your dress I was referring to, and you know it.’

  She looked at him, a tiny frown between her eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t being facetious,’ she retorted defensively.

  ‘But you were,’ he contradicted. And then, without warning, he reached to take her hand, just as he had done on two previous occasions. But whereas on those occasions she had snatched her hand away before he could touch it, this time she even made a shy movement to let him enclose it within the warmth of his lean brown fingers. The contact sent feathery ripples along her spine; her smile fluttered, then deepened and seemed to match the liquid glow of pleasure in her eyes.

  ‘I—you. . . .’ Her voice trailed off, partly because she had no idea what she wanted to say, and partly because that nerve was pulsating in Luke’s throat again, and she could not take her eyes off it—not until, with a gentle finger beneath her chin, he lifted her face and she found herself staring into his eyes. The next instant he had bent his head and she felt the touch of a man’s lips for the first time in five years. Sheer undiluted pleasure rippled through her before, out from the recesses of her mind, there emerged the image of her dead fiancé. . . .

  Her mouth twisted convulsively as the past flared to reality and she lived again through poignant memory the happiness she and Frank had shared. And then Mrs Weedall’s anguished face superimposed itself over everything else and Clare heard her own sincere promise that she would never let another man enter her life.

  An involuntary shudder brought movement to Clare’s body even before she fiercely snatched her hand away.

  Luke’s own hand fell to his side as, perceiving Clare’s distress, his eyes glinted wrathfully. There was no hint of pity in his voice when presently he spoke.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve changed dramatically within seconds.’

  He knew of course what was wrong, but was determined to force an answer from her.

  Her eyes lifted to his, pain mirrored in their depths.

  ‘I know you’ve no—no patience w-with me,’ she began, ‘but—’

  ‘Not a scrap of patience!’ he broke in derisively. ‘You’re your own worst enemy, and no one can help you!’

  She stared with bewildered incomprehension, noticing the tightness of his mouth, the flexed line of his jaw, the narrowed, uncompromising expression in those steely grey eyes.

  ‘You shouldn’t have held my hand!’ she flashed, forgetting her own reciprocation. ‘There was no need!’

  ‘Memories!’ he scoffed, containing his temper with the utmost effort. ‘One day, Clare, I shall lose my control and knock some sense into you!’

  ‘You—!’ Staggered by his imperious manner Clare could only stare at him for a long disbelieving moment. ‘What did you say?’ she challenged at last.

  ‘You heard! Next time you’ll feel!’

  An astounded silence followed this incredible threat, an upsurge of anger bringing colour to her cheeks. Anyone would think he had some sort of authority over her, the way he spoke!

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that!’ she fumed. ‘Who do you think you are—adopting that high-handed attitude with me?’

  Luke glowered at her, then suddenly his manner changed, and when he spoke he had assumed an air of indifference that was as unexpected as it was incomprehensible.

  ‘You are quite right to be indignant. I’ve no reason at all for my—er—high-handed attitude as you term it.’ His eyes roved her with a hint of contempt before he added briskly. ‘Come along. I don’t know what we’re standing here for!’

  He began to walk away and Clare hurried to keep up with him. She was miserable because of his changed manner and because of her own reaction to the simple affectionate gesture of his taking her hand. He had obviously wanted to take it, expecting to derive some kind of pleasure, and she too had been in a reciprocal frame of mind until that intrusion of the past had filled her whole being with a sense of disloyalty and guilt. Would it continue for ever? Until coming here to Flamingo Cay she had not wanted it to end; her memories were carrying her through and, as far as her mind could estimate, they would go on doing so for the rest of her life. After all, she had told herself, there were other women who, true to a first love, had remained single when that first love died. Clare knew of one middle-aged spinster who, having lost her boy-friend in the war, had remained wholly true to his memory.

  They reached the courtyard, created by Luke’s ingenuity from the natural coral rock, and Clare stopped to stare appreciatively at the flowers—exotic orchids set delightfully in the low branches of the trees, the flaring hibiscus blossoms, the blood red canna lilies. The two crystal fountains sparkled in the sunshine, music in their cascading descent from the low cliffs of gleaming coral limestone.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ breathed Clare, lifting her eyes to Luke’s face. ‘You have a marvellous flair for creating beauty. Men are not usually appreciative of such things.’

  ‘You think not?’ with a lift of his faintly-arched brows. ‘I can assure you, Clare, that most men do certainly appreciate beauty.’

  There was no mistaking his meaning and Clare glanced away, profoundly sensitive to the fact that his anger had dissolved, and yet repelled—in some way which she owned was quite illogical—from encouraging anything closer than this superficial friendliness he was now adopting. She must not allow him to take her hand again, and most certainly she would never allow him to kiss her.

  She glanced up at him, wondering if he expected her to make some comment. However, he spoke again before she could, a hint of mockery in his deep male voice.

  ‘I expect, my dear, that you would like me to change the subject.’ She said nothing and after a small pause he went on, ‘You’re not immune to male flattery, Clare, although you’d very much like to convince me that you are.’ Again there was no response and he made no further attempt to draw her out, but instead he invited her into the house for a drink. ‘You’re early,’ he added as she fell into step beside him as he proceeded in the direction of an open French window leading into the living-room of the villa, ‘and so I can spare you a little of my time. The few people who are already here are with my agent; he’s giving them a rough outline of our intentions regarding the development of the land we’ve bought.’

  ‘They’re round at the other side of the house?’ She had heard voices so concluded the agent and his audience were there.

  Luke nodded his head. ‘Yes. He’ll keep them occupied until others arrive.’

  Once inside the house Luke took Clare into the living-room and after seeing her seated in a big armchair he asked her what she would like to drink.

  ‘A large lemonade, please,’ she answered, ‘with ice.’

  ‘It shall be done.’ He walked away and she glanced around.

  It was a delightful room furnished with taste and at a great expense, but in its male and austere atmosphere something vital to complete comfort was lost. Clare’s roving eye assessed what was missing and without realizing it she was mentally effecting improvements that would produce the character and cosiness which it lacked at present. She would have flowers here, and cushions there, and a few more rugs to break up the exquisite marble tiling of the floor. An old master would look just right over there, with a light playing on it from above. An antique Chelsea group similar to one owned by a friend would indeed set off the piecrust table standing to one side of the window—

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Luke’s deep voice broke into a reverie that was exceedingly pleasant and she glanced up to see him standing there by the cocktail cabinet, a glass of iced lemonade in his hand. She coloured delicately, wondering what he would say if she answered his question truthfully. She had no intention of doing so and she prevaricated by smilingly telling him how much she liked the room. He glanced about him and to her surprise she saw a frown appear between his eyes. Perhaps, she thought, he too reali
sed that it lacked a woman’s touch.

  He sat down on a chair opposite to her and they chatted while having their drinks. He was amicable enough but there was a certain coolness about him which she knew resulted from her own attitude.

  It came as a complete surprise, therefore, when he invited her to dine at his home that evening.

  ‘I’m on my own,’ he added before she could speak, ‘I shall enjoy the company.’

  ‘On your own?’ she repeated without knowing why.

  ‘Yes, on my own,’ he said, a sort of mocking challenge in his glance. ‘Afraid of something?’

  ‘Why should I be afraid?’ she countered, but she looked away, avoiding his eyes, and focused her attention on a dainty little humming-bird flashing its iridescent plumage among the crimson flowers of a hibiscus bush.

  ‘Perhaps,’ rejoined Luke tersely, ‘you can tell me why you should be afraid?’

  Clare sent him a frowning glance and said indignantly, ‘The question ought never to have been asked, so why throw it back at me?’

  There was a long, impatient moment of silence before Luke, regarding her squarely, asked if she considered that the whole of her life and future were owed to a man who was dead. Clare flinched and shook her head. It was not a negative gesture but one of bewilderment and uncertainty. For although she had wanted Luke to hold her hand just now, and had enjoyed his kiss, she had immediately been stabbed by a sense of guilt as memories intruded. Then there was the solemn promise she had made to Frank’s mother, a promise which had undoubtedly brought some small measure of comfort to an old lady whose life was empty now that she had lost her husband as well as her son.

  Miserably Clare looked up, tears pricking the backs of her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know, Luke,’ she faltered. ‘I’m so confused.’

  Luke drew an impatient breath which somehow nettled her, causing her to turn on him and say fiercely, ‘Why don’t you mind your own business! What are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘Make you see sense!’ he returned with sudden harshness. ‘Why don’t you snap out of it and learn to live again?’

  Clare’s eyes blazed, but before she had time to say what was in her mind, Luke, with a couple of long determined strides, had covered the distance between them; one hand shot out to grip her wrist while with the other he took the glass from her and put it on the table, spilling the liquid as he did so. Clare, frozen into immobility by surprise at his unexpected action, was roughly jerked against his hard body without as much as a cry of protest, let alone any physical resistance.

  ‘Yes,’ he gritted determinedly, ‘it’s time you learned to live again—and I’m just the man to give you a few lessons!’ His dark face was close; she felt his cool clean breath fanning her cheek, was conscious of tempting after-shave lotion, pine-scented and fresh. The sudden contact of his sensuous mouth sent a spasm of pleasure through her body yet at the same time galvanised her into action and her struggles began as she twisted about, attempting to free herself from a hold that was steel-hawser strong. She managed to press her hands against the iron-hardness of his chest but when she felt the strong wiry hairs through the thin cotton of his shirt she gave a shudder and brought her hands away again, far more swiftly than she had put them there.

  ‘Let me go!’ she cried when he took his lips from hers. ‘You’re a cad to do this to me—!’

  ‘Don’t be trite,’ he admonished, a hint of mocking amusement in his tone. He looked into her eyes for a long unfathomable moment and then, ‘Defiance . . . resistance . . . that’s what I see in these lovely eyes—’ He touched the lids as they came down protectively against his caressing fingers. ‘But I shall see desire—yes, the dreamy dark pools that tell me you’re not the little iceberg you’d have everyone believe. Five years! My God, child, it’s a lifetime! And with your beauty—’

  ‘I’m not beautiful!’ she broke in fiercely. ‘I’m not!’

  ‘You with your exquisite beauty,’ he continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘growing old all the time! I shan’t let you lose what life and love can give!’

  ‘Love?’ She shook her head. ‘I shall never fall in love! Nor do I want anyone to fall in love with me! You know why—so stop torturing me! Let me go—’

  ‘Your body’s made for pleasure—a man’s pleasure as well as your own—’

  ‘Stop it! Listen to what I have to say!’ Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks but he was immune to them. ‘You’re a beast! I shall tell my brother what you’ve done to me!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he disputed imperturbably. ‘This, Clare, is between you and me.’ His mouth, full-lipped and demanding, sensuous and moist, pressed hard against the quivering, convulsive movement of hers, his tongue exploring, his hands caressing, his hard virile body arched, melding its dominant strength to her slender frame.

  Clare began to struggle again, tears of mortification rolling down her face as he gave a low triumphant laugh at her puny, futile efforts.

  ‘I enjoy showing you my strength.’ His voice was a throaty bass murmur against her ear. ‘And you . . . Doesn’t a woman enjoy the sensation of weakness, of being mastered?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Liar! I’m no callow youth without experience,’ he assured her with a touch of arrogant mastery. ‘My experience of women taught me long ago that there’s still a trait within them that’s a legacy from the primitive, from caveman times—’

  ‘Don’t talk such rubbish!’ she flared. ‘And I’m not interested in your experience with women in any case!’

  He looked deeply into her eyes. ‘You’re even more desirable when you’re angry,’ he mused. ‘How is it that no man has drawn the sword against your defences before now?’ Without giving her time to answer, his lips possessed hers again, his body crushing hers with the calculated intention of forcing her to experience the feel of his male hardness. His muscles were flexed against the softness of her thighs, while the ravaging dominance of his mouth explored her throat, discovering a hypersensitive place with his tongue and in spite of her instinct to struggle Clare found herself carried irresistibly on the tide of his ardour as spasm after spasm rocked her whole frame, reducing her limbs to pulp as the fire of his passion razed her defences to ashes. His hand moved in sensual exploration of her imprisoned body and when her small firm breast was captured and caressed a low moan of ecstasy escaped her and she clung to him as mind and body drifted into a sensuous torpor with every vestige of strength deserting her.

  At last he held her from him, triumph mingling with mockery to create an expression that she ought to have resented but could not. Instead she lowered her head to find a resting place for it on his chest. She was still clinging to him, sensuously gripped in the afterglow of his violent love-making.

  She felt his hand caressing her hair and, strangely comforted, she pressed just a little bit closer to him.

  ‘Let me look into your eyes,’ Luke ordered presently, and at the same time he was gently cupping her chin to raise her head. A mocking smile quirked one corner of his mouth as he said, softly and yet with an inflection of triumph in his voice, ‘Dark and dreamy . . . result of those most pleasant sensations that coursed through your veins just now—’

  ‘Don’t!’ she implored, her sweet full mouth twisting convulsively. ‘Please don’t gloat, Luke; I can’t bear it.’

  The grey eyes narrowed and for one despairing moment she thought he was going to drop the tender way he was adopting with her. She felt she would have wept unrestrainedly if he had, but it seemed as if he perceived her fears and it was with infinite gentleness that he brought her head to his breast again, stroking her hair, fingering the tender places close to her ear and finally embracing her quietly, and without passion.

  ‘I’m not gloating,’ he assured her softly. ‘But I am trying to point out the fact that you are by no means as cold and unemotional as you yourself believe. On the contrary, were you to drop every single inhibition, you’d be the most desirable lover any man could wish
for.’

  Clare wanted to protest, to stop him in the middle of what he was saying, but she was still in a state of torpor, wanting only to rest her body and relax her mind. It must be wonderful, she thought dreamily, to make love and then sleep in your lover’s arms, your naked body close to his. The thought was thrust away determinedly. Marriage was not for her—no, not even though she had been taught so much in the last few minutes. She leant away, realising that it was with a tremendous effort that she was keeping Frank and his mother out of her mind. Both had intruded in the last half minute or so but their images were vague, nebulous, almost.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Luke wanted to know, his eyes narrowing again. ‘Tell me.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m trying not to think about anything,’ she admitted.

  The grey eyes became perceptive, and faintly wrathful.

  ‘Then keep on trying,’ he advised tautly. ‘Forget the past!’

  Clare said nothing, because she had no wish to make him angry with her. But she had no intention of heeding him; she had pledged her word to Frank’s mother and she had no intention of breaking that pledge. In any case, her love for her dead fiancé had not waned even though the years had, to a great extent, assuaged the pain. She owed it to him to remain faithful to his memory because, as his mother always reminded her, had the positions been reversed Frank would never even have looked at another woman.

  ‘Clare,’ said Luke, breaking into her train of thought, ‘are you going to accept that invitation to dine with me?’

  Without hesitation she shook her head, drawing right away from him. ‘No, Luke, I’d rather not.’