Beyond Temptation (18 page)

On the bed, Bernice moaned.

Robyn glanced at the woman and saw Amelia tease the tip of one pierced nipple with her finger. She ignored the sight, disturbed by the feelings it aroused. Robyn was already suffering enough sexual torment. It wouldn’t help if she started getting horny as she watched a display of lesbianism and sadomasochism.

‘It isn’t healthy to be so repressed,’ Yale told her. His tone was trying to remain cool and indifferent but she sensed her rebuff had hurt him. ‘You’ll develop facial tics or something.’

‘Thank you for your concern,’ she replied stiffly. ‘But if I ever need someone to counsel me on things like that, I’ll consult a psychiatrist, not a painter who specialises in titties.’

He took a step back. With a modest shrug, he reached for his brush and studied his model again. His interest was suddenly concentrated upon his work and Robyn felt as though he had slammed a door on her. She supposed it was an impressive way of dismissing her, and if she had seen him use it on anyone else she would have applauded his control.

But, because he had used it on her, she felt stung.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of some movement between Amelia and Bernice. The brunette dominatrix was applying pressure to the ribbon. Robyn could see Bernice’s nipple being tugged by its piercing as Amelia pulled. The woman on the bed moaned softly.

Robyn caught another breath in her throat, startled by the sudden pang of yearning that the sight evoked. She turned her head away from the scene and tried to study one of the paintings he had placed in the corner of the room.

It was the piece he had called
Forbidden Love
and again Robyn was struck by the expression in the eyes of the two models. The combination of dark intimacy and prohibited lovemaking was so beautifully captured that her pulse quickened. Again, she wondered what deliciously wicked acts the models might have been engaged in. The thought further kindled her swelling arousal.

With an angry curse, she snatched her gaze away and closed her eyes. Images, sights, sounds and smells of sex surrounded her. The knowledge that she wasn’t allowed to relent and enjoy any of those pleasures only made the moment more torturous.

When she opened he eyes Yale caught her gaze. Instead of glaring, as she had expected, he studied Robyn with a lewd appraisal. He licked his lips lasciviously, his gaze flitting between her eyes and the tops of her legs.

Self-consciously she glanced down at herself and realised she had been revealing more than just the tops of her legs for his appraisal. A tuft of blonde hair was revealed beneath the hem of the pyjama shirt. Her cheeks burnt as it dawned on her how much of herself she had been showing. She darted a hand down to cover herself but remained transfixed by the commanding stare of his deep-brown eyes. There was something in his expression that made her stomach muscles quiver. He had a way of looking at her that made her legs weak and had her inner thighs burning.

She had been struck by the impulse to possess on more than one occasion. Dominic had been the last, at that fateful, hateful dinner party. But the impulse had never before felt this strong. Her inner muscles clenched with greedy anticipation as she stared at him. The lips of her sex were drenched with the copious flow of her arousal. The pulsing throb of her tortured clitoris silently begged for him.

‘Stop fighting it, Robyn.’ He paused between brushstrokes and considered her with cool confidence. ‘You want it as badly as I do. We both know that.’

She shook her head, silently refuting his allegation. Perhaps she did want him, but she knew that was no longer an option. Harold had told her what would happen if she slept with another man and she was in no doubt of her husband’s sincerity. If she gave in to her desires and slept with Yale, it would be the end of her marriage. With a strangled sigh, she turned her back on the artist and fled to the safety of her bedroom.

As she closed the door and threw herself on the bed, tears of frustration poured down Robyn’s cheeks. It had been a long time since she had prayed at bedtime but she believed there had to be someone listening to her muttered words as she clasped her hands to her chest.

God, or fate, or someone, had to intervene and remove her unwanted house guests. As long as Yale was in Holbert Manor, Robyn knew she would be tortured beyond temptation. Under other circumstances she would have already yielded to him. But she didn’t dare this time. It only made matters worse that she wanted him so badly. And, if he stayed in the house for another day, she didn’t doubt she would give in to the demands of her body’s true needs.

When Robyn finally awoke she still felt drained. The sheets clung to her body with drying sweat and she ached after an arduous night’s tossing and turning. A glance at her wristwatch told her she shouldn’t have felt tired. It was nearly one in the afternoon.

She moaned with disbelief.

Realisation of the late hour didn’t make her hasten her pace. She stepped wearily out of the bed and went listlessly through the process of getting a shower. Holbert Manor was plumbed with intermittent hot and cold water. Harold had once said that the plumber either hated the new English owners or had the most perverse sense of humour he had ever encountered.

She remembered the comment as the steamy water turned frigid on her bare skin. The memory of his joke barely brought a wry smile to her lips. She laid all the blame for yesterday’s torment at Harold’s feet and was damned if she was going to smile at the memory of his cynical humour.

Towelling herself dry, she reflected that the shower had helped to invigorate her dour mood. She dressed with a little more of her usual aplomb than she had thought possible.

It was a natural habit to put on stockings. As soon as she had begun to fasten the suspender belt clasps beneath the loose top, she stopped herself.

In her own mind, stockings were inextricably linked with illicit sex – and illicit sex was no longer allowed. She released the clasp and rolled the length of black nylon down her leg. Ignoring the scintillating frisson, she dropped the stockings onto her bed and stepped into a pair of heels. After checking her short skirt and top in the mirror, she started down the stairs for an afternoon breakfast. Her mood was still tired but she felt strengthened by a streak of determination. Robyn was ready to meet the challenge of her guests and adamant that she would triumph.

‘Don’t you look alluring?’ Yale remarked. The crisp lilt of his Scots accent made the words heavy with insinuation. ‘What would the lady of the manor care for this morning? I can provide you with delicacies that are the sole privilege of residents this side of the border.’

‘It’s afternoon,’ Robyn said grumpily. ‘And if you mention haggis I’ll personally throw you out of this place.’ She shook her head in disgust and stepped into the kitchen where he was working with a dishcloth and a listless attitude.

‘Don’t denigrate the haggis,’ he said, with mock-seriousness. ‘The haggis is a national institution.’

She shook her head. ‘I find the idea of eating a used airline sick bag slightly more appetising, and not that much dissimilar. I didn’t bring any food down here with me,’ she added. ‘Should I go and …’

He raised a hand, silencing her. ‘Christian and Bernice went out for provisions this morning. We’ve got eggs, bacon, butter, tomatoes and a rather phallic looking loaf of bread. So if you’d just care to tell your chef what he can do for you, your breakfast will be prepared.’

She studied him suspiciously as she slid into a chair at the kitchen table. ‘I’ll start with a coffee and an update as to how your motor home's repairs are proceeding.’

His smile was tight and apologetic. ‘The coffee I can manage. The update is still pretty much the same as it was yesterday.’

Robyn groaned. ‘Come on, Yale. You asked if you could stay for one night. At least make the effort to get out of here.’

He bristled silently but didn’t rise to an argument. ‘The vehicle’s warranty insists I get an approved dealer to do any repairs. The closest approved dealer can’t make it here until tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

She shook her head. ‘Then why don’t you use an unapproved dealer?’

‘That would invalidate the warranty.’

‘Why don’t you take a good look around the house and find someone who cares? I mean it, Yale, I’m finding it difficult sharing this place with you and your …’ – she struggled to find the right word, not wanting to cause offence but determined to express herself clearly – ‘… your colleagues,’ she concluded unhappily.

As though he was taking her at her word, Yale cast a glance around the kitchen. The room was dominated by a time-blackened Aga, its huge frame squatting beneath a brick chimney on the far wall. Copper pans hung from polished brass hooks along the walls, their shiny bases a testament to their lack of use. The tables and cupboards were made of antique pine that almost looked authentic in the bleak brick room.

‘It’s a gorgeous building,’ Yale told her. ‘Notwithstanding your attempts at modernisation.’

Robyn glowered at him, but said nothing.

‘Do you know it was built in 1692, the year of the MacDonald massacre at Glencoe? It achieved notoriety not just because it was a brothel but because the heinous harlots who worked here did foul and depraved things.’ He leant close to her as he presented her with a cup of coffee. ‘Do you know what they said some of those disgusting women actually did?’

Robyn sipped scalding coffee and tried to look indifferent as she threw him a questioning glance. ‘What did they do that was so terrible?’

He sat beside her and smiled. ‘Some of them had English lovers. Isn’t that depraved?’

She shook her head and turned away from him. It was difficult but she found, if she wasn’t looking at him, she could ignore the impulse to lean over and passionately kiss him. The idea of pressing her mouth over his and forcing her tongue between his lips was constantly at the forefront of her mind when she studied his face.

‘Can you imagine anything worse than having an Englishman in bed with you?’ Yale continued. ‘They’re all so bland and pale and lacking in spirit. What’s a woman to do when she’s saddled herself with such a worthless piece of ineptitude as an Englishman?’

‘Perhaps she should be thankful that the man isn’t Scottish?’ Robyn suggested. ‘Perhaps she should be thankful she has a man who doesn’t steal her best plaid skirt and call it a national fashion accessory?’

Yale’s frown was deadly serious this time.

Robyn sensed she had wounded his pride and insulted his heritage. She felt a moment’s regret for having spoken so callously. The feeling didn’t last long.

Yale’s sour demeanour evaporated and he smiled easily before casting a glance towards the kitchen door. ‘They say that the Jacobites called in here on their way to the battle of Prestonpans. The same men stopped off before going to their deaths at Culloden.’

‘You’re meant to be an artist, not an historian.’ Robyn was intrigued in spite of herself. ‘How do you know so much about this place?’

A wistful smile crossed his lips. ‘Holbert Manor has always been a passion of mine,’ he explained. ‘That was one of the reasons that I came up here to see you.’

She silently urged him to continue.

‘I used to live a couple of miles from here when I was growing up. I fell in love with the tales of all the sordid happenings that had taken place in this building.’

‘You must tell me some of them,’ Robyn murmured.

‘When I went to university I kept coming back to this place in my mind. I tried to capture it on canvas but it’s not the bricks and mortar that I love: it’s the excitement that lives and breathes within the bricks and mortar.’

Robyn felt a shiver tickle her spine. She studied him with renewed interest, wishing he didn’t evoke such a strong passion between her legs.

‘So, why did you come to see me?’

He placed his hand on hers. The gesture was infuriatingly intimate and Robyn yearned to snatch her fingers from his grasp. She managed to keep her hand still but it took a determined effort. It also left her feeling weak and in need of having his body pressed against hers.

‘I want to exhibit here,’ he explained. ‘This building is what I think about when someone mentions the word “erotic”. This place, with its history, and beauty and isolation.’ He paused and shook his head, as though he were trying to get his thoughts in order. ‘For me, this place is sex personified.’

Robyn felt a second prickle touch her spine. Her hand trembled beneath his and she stared meekly into the excited sparkle of his eyes.

‘You feel it too, don’t you?’

Robyn snatched her hand from his. ‘Of course not,’ she lied. ‘It’s a building. It’s crumbling. It’s old and it’s as sexy as a dead cat.’

‘Liar.’

She sipped more coffee and looked away.

‘Whatever this place is,’ she continued, ‘it’s not going to be a bloody exhibit hall. It’s too out of the way, and the locals would cause an uproar if we tried to publicise the building’s history.’

Yale nodded enthusiastically. ‘The entire folly would dominate the art section of every broadsheet. The tabloids would even take a swipe at it, regardless of their lack of interest in art. A wee bit of subtle publicity in the appropriate magazine,
Art
for instance, and this could be a colossal success.’

Robyn stared at him in momentary wonder.

The idea had potential.

‘Sex returns to Holbert Manor,’ Yale suggested, making the words sound like a banner headline. His voice changed to the urgent tones of a news anchorman as he said, ‘A display of highly erotic artwork has been decried by the local council as obscene. Plans are already under way to get an injunction banning the exhibition.’

Robyn placed her cup down heavily. ‘They
could
ban it with an injunction.’

‘Defying that injunction would get us more publicity,’ Yale countered.

Robyn chewed on her lower lip, trying to find a flaw in this master plan. She had already seen enough of Yale’s paintings to know he deserved success and acclaim. This was the ideal opportunity to promote him and possibly further her own reputation by discovering him. Certainly the increased advertising revenue that
Art
would be able to command on the publicity from such a stunt would more than cover the solicitors’ fees that were incurred.