Guilty Passion (15 page)

“I won't promise to bring Cinderella home by midnight,” Jeff said, taking his cue from her and standing up. “We could be dancing until dawn.”

“Celeste is a big girl,” Ethan said, apparently tranquil. “I'm sure she can take care of herself. But she's not been entirely well, lately. Just take it easy, okay?”

“Sure. Don't worry, uncle,” Jeff teased. He put a hand on Celeste's waist. “Let's go.”

“Something's bugging him,” Jeff said in the car.

Trying to sound surprised, Celeste said, “He seemed quite happy to me.”

“Uh-uh. He's uptight about something.”

“Work, maybe.”

“Maybe. Well, that's his problem. You and I are going to enjoy ourselves, right?”

“Right,” she echoed, stifling a tiny, ridiculous regret that it was Jeff sitting beside her, and not Ethan.

The club was right on the waterfront in Conneston. Its atmosphere was friendly and sophisticated, the decor a mixture of Pacific artifacts, with carvings much in evidence among glossy potted plants, and upmarket brass and smoked glass furniture. Jeff knew a few people and they soon found themselves members of a party. At first a little tense and scared, Celeste gradually relaxed, helped by a couple of glasses of wine and some delicious coconut, rice and fish combination that Jeff assured her was a specialty of the house and not to be missed.

A small combo played dance music, the musicians imported from Tahiti and wearing garlands of flowers. When Jeff first asked her to dance, she felt rather stiff and out of practice, but after he had whirled her around the floor a couple of times with uninhibited expertise, she began to enjoy herself properly. She danced with a couple of his friends, too, and was conscious of having a thoroughly good time. Everyone was easily friendly; the men were admiring without being pushy, and the women seemed to like her. There was no pressure and no tension. The music, the food, the movements of the dance, and perhaps the wine, all helped. She looked up at Jeff as he handed her another glass of wine, and smiled at him gratefully. For the first time, she felt there was no danger of relapsing into the grey world she had inhabited for so long.

“Okay?” Jeff raised an eyebrow.

“Very much so. Thank you for bringing me, Jeff.”

“My pleasure. Like to dance again?”

“I haven't danced so much in years.” She got up to join him on the floor. The music was slow and dreamy, and he tucked her hand against his chest and drew her close, nuzzling his cheek against her hair.

Gently, Celeste pushed him away a little.

He grinned down at her. “No?”

She shook her head firmly. “Sorry, Jeff. Just friends?”

He studied the shadow of anxiety in her eyes and bent to brush his lips across her forehead. “Fine. But you can't blame a bloke for trying.”

“I'm not blaming you for anything. You've been very sweet to me.”

He grimaced. “Sounds like the kiss of death. Oh, well. You can't win ‘em all.”

She smiled at him teasingly. “I shouldn't think you'd have much trouble winning quite a few.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” He added thoughtfully, “You've changed a lot since you came to Sheerwind.”

“Don't remind me,” she said soberly. “I was in something of a state, wasn't I?”

“Sorry,” he said. “You don't need to be told. Anyway, I'm glad you've snapped out of it. I guess Ethan has had a lot to do with it.”

She looked at him rather warily, and he said, “I mean, he's really pulled you through it, hasn't he?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “he really has. For his own reasons.”

“How's that?”

“Nothing. Let's not discuss Ethan tonight.”

“Suits me. Talking about another man when I'm dancing with a beautiful woman—I must be slipping!”

He took her home at about one-thirty. Ethan had left the door on the latch, and Jeff opened it for her, saying, “Shall I find the light for you?”

“It's all right,” she said. “I'll turn on the switch in the lounge. Thank you, Jeff. I had a great time.”

“My pleasure.”

As she paused, he said, with laughter in his voice, “I've been a perfect little gentleman all night. Do I rate a good-night kiss?”

He was a tryer, she thought, amused. She laughed softly and lifted her face. He kissed her nicely, without passion. Just as he knew she would have wished. Then he put his arms about her and gave her a hug. “I had a great time, too. Good night, Celeste.”

“Good night.” She closed the door after him and snicked the lock, then walked slowly down the passageway to the living room.

She paused in the doorway, and gasped as a looming shadow rose from one of the chairs.

“Have a good time?” Ethan asked.

“Yes, thank you. Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“It relaxes me.”

“I thought you'd be in bed.”

“I finished the programme I was working on about an hour ago. So I figured I might as well hang about until you came in.”

“There's no need to wait up for me. As you said, I'm a big girl, now.”

“Absolutely.
Was
Jeff a perfect little gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Disappointed?”

So it was starting again, she thought, her heart sinking. It was one thing to feel able to stand up to whatever he planned to hurl at her, but after a pleasant, relaxed evening, she didn't want to start a minor war. “No,” she said coldly, wondering if Ethan had been drinking while he waited. She thought she could faintly smell whisky, and surely that couldn't be left over from hours ago.

“Do you mean to tell me that one good-night kiss is enough for you?” Ethan asked.

“Don't be so beastly,” she said. “I'm going to bed.”

“Alone again?”

On her way to the stairs, she swung around. “
Yes
, alone!”

“You don't have to be,” he said softly.

“What?” In the act of turning away again, she froze.

“I said,” Ethan enunciated clearly, “you don't have to go alone.”She said, “Are you offering to—” “That's right,” he said. “I'm offering to warm your bed. Your body. Your heart, if you had one. Pity about that. But one can't have everything.”

Celeste drew in a shaking breath. “I wouldn't have you in my bed if you were the last man on earth!” Deliberately, she added, “You make me
sick
!”

She had got to the stairs and was two steps up when he grabbed her, pulling her around and down to him, so that she fell heavily into his arms. Before she could even attempt to free herself, she found herself clamped against him, and he was kissing her angrily, hungrily, with a passion beyond control. She was right about the whisky, but the smell of it was soon replaced by the musky masculine scent of his skin, the taste of it drowned in the taste of his mouth. She fought him, silently and furiously, and when nothing else worked, lifted her foot in its high-heeled sandal and brought it down smartly on his instep.

He grunted with pain and stepped back, allowing her a brief respite, but when she would have fled, he snaked an arm about her waist, and the next moment she was lifted high and he was carrying her up the stairs.

One arm was trapped against his body, but she flailed a fist at his shoulders and his chin. He jerked his head out of the way and said grimly, “Keep that up and you'll have us both down the stairs.”

She drew in a panting breath and went stiffly acquiescent, only to fight him again as he shouldered open the door to her room and crossed swiftly to the bed. Moonlight spilled across it, and he pressed her down on the cover and caught her hands, taking her wrists back against the pillow, his body and his legs holding her while he kissed her mouth, kissed it for a long time, and in so many different ways. When she strained against him she could feel his body along the length of hers, and unexpectedly a hot rush of desire swept through her. She gasped into his open mouth and writhed in a futile attempt to escape him, to escape her own shocking need. He wouldn't let her go, and she realised that her struggles were only increasing his arousal. She went still, trying to control her beating heart, the rising, hot tide within her. The effort cost her, and she sobbed with frustration and a confused mixture of emotions.

Ethan raised his head, trying to see her face.

She whispered, “Please, let go of my wrists. Please.”

Slowly he let them go, resting his hands at either side of her, not moving away. She lay there, her hands resting on the pillow. Her mouth felt hot and swollen, and deep trembles of desire ran through and through her body. She sucked in a breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “Ethan,” she murmured. And her hands came up to his hair, remembering the feel of it from long ago, stroking its springy softness, and then she gently drew his mouth back to hers.

At dawn she woke and found him gone from her bed. Opening her eyes, she saw that he was standing at the window, a black shadow against the pane, where the sky was beginning to lighten, the stars fading and disappearing one by one.

“Ethan?” she whispered.

At first she thought he hadn't heard. Then he turned, but of course it was too dark to see his face.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, as he continued to stand there silently.

After a moment, he said, “What could be the matter?”

“I. . . don't know.” But she was frightened, a pulse in her throat beating nervously. They had made love for a long time, and more than once. For her it had been like a homecoming after long years in the desert. And for him—she couldn't know, but she remembered how he had adored her body with his hands, his mouth, how he had teased and shuddered with pleasure when she touched him, and later, still lying within her arms, he had murmured against her skin, with an air of wonder, “Perfect. . . perfect.”

She lifted a pale arm in the dimness. “Please come back to me, Ethan.”

He didn't come right away, but when he did, he sat on the bed and took her hand, pressing his lips into her palm. Raising his head, he asked, “Have you ever swum in the sea at dawn?”

“No. Is that what you want to do?”

“I'll get some towels,” he said.

When he came back into the room carrying two large fresh towels, and wearing another about his waist, she had switched on the bedside lamp and put on her knee-length white satin wrap, belted at the waist, and was holding a swimsuit in one hand.

“You won't need that,” Ethan said, taking it from her and throwing it down on the bed. “Come on.”

They ran down the path like children, even though it was still quite dark, and in the shadows she tripped and fell against him, and he caught her up and kissed her, sending delicious tingles through her body.

On the sand, he dropped the towels at the edge of the trees, and unselfconsciously discarded the one he wore. Then he looked at her standing fiddling with the satin tie at her waist. “Take it off,” he said softly. And when she still hesitated, he offered, “Or shall I do it for you?”

She didn't answer, and he reached for her, grasping the ends of the belt to bring her closer. The knot parted as he did so, and the wrap loosened, drawing his eyes to the gap where the swell of her breasts showed between the satin edges. “
Déjà vu
,” he murmured.

“What?” Her voice was barely audible.

“I wanted to do this once before,” he said, as his hands parted the satin farther. “Months ago, in Sydney.” His fingers ran lightly over her breasts, bared to his brooding gaze, and then trailed over her shoulders, sweeping aside the wrap so that it slid down her arms and lay in a gleaming white pool on the sand. Then he lifted her naked in his arms and carried her down to the water.

They swam gently in the glittering morning sea, floating and touching each other as they passed and met briefly together, and kissed. At first the water was chilly, but soon it warmed, caressing their bodies. The sun's rim curved over the horizon and laid a golden path to the shore, and Ethan touched her ankle as he glided past, and said, “Ready to get out?”

He took her hand as they walked up the beach, and when they reached the towels, he picked one up and wrapped it around her body. The sunrise made his wet skin look like burnished copper, and she raised a hand to follow a trail of salty droplets along his shoulder and down his arm to the crook of his elbow. She smiled at him, and saw his jaw clench. She reached up and kissed another droplet from his chin, and he pulled her close, his knuckles digging into her breasts where he held the towel. The sunrise lit his eyes, and she caught her breath before he bent his head and captured her mouth under his. After a while, he dropped the towel and his hands spread over her breasts, making her moan with the sweet sensation of it. Then he took her with him down to the sand, spreading the towel beneath her, and made love to her while the sun rose out of the sea and spread its lush crimson light over them.

When they got back to the house the phone was ringing. Ethan answered it while Celeste ran up the stairs and showered the sand from her body and her hair, wound a fresh towel about her, because the satin wrap was sandy and damp, and rubbed with another at her hair. As she combed it out in her bedroom, Ethan came in without knocking. He had put on a pair of jeans but wore no shirt.

“I have to go to the mainland,” he said. “Something's come up.”

“What?” she asked.

“A glitch in a programme I sent to a firm in Brisbane recently. They have hundreds of thousands of dollars tied up in this system, and they say they need me to sort out the problem. I've got a contract with them. I have to go.”

“Yes, of course,” she said hollowly. “When?”

“I've phoned the airport. They'll hold this morning's flight for me. It means I have to leave now. I'll just shower and change. Can you come along and drive the car back?”

“Yes. I'll get dressed and make you some coffee. You'll have time for that?”

“Just coffee, nothing else. Celeste. . . I'm sorry about this.”

“Don't be.” She gave him a quick smile. “You'd better hurry.”

He caught her chin in his hand on the way to the door and dropped a kiss on her lips. “Thanks.”

She dressed in a pair of sun-coloured trousers and a blouse, letting her hair dry on her shoulders. Then she ran down the stairs and made coffee, handing Ethan a steaming cup when he appeared wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and dark tie, and with his hair damply sleek. He drank the coffee standing up, then snatched up a briefcase and overnight bag and said, “Let's go.”

He drove fast and smoothly, seemingly giving all his concentration to the task. When Celeste looked at him, there was a faint frown line between his brows, and she had the impression he was already wrestling with the problem, whatever it was, that he had to solve. Tactfully, she refrained from talking.

At the airport he turned in his seat and gave her a sudden, piercing scrutiny that she didn't quite understand. He put a hand behind her head, pulled her close to him and kissed her thoroughly, his lips almost bruising. As he drew away, he said softly, “Well, we've established one thing this morning, I think. I don't make you sick.”

She bit her lip. “No.”

“Right.” He stayed there just looking at her, then stirred and said, “I've got to go. I'll phone as soon as I know what day you can expect me. When I get back. . . we'll talk.”

She watched him cross the road and go through the doors to the terminal before she slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

She made herself some breakfast, feeling remarkably hungry, and sat eating it on the patio. When she took her empty plate and glass inside, she found Mrs. Jackson in the kitchen, wiping shelves with a damp cloth.

“Good morning.” The woman smiled. “You're up early these days.”

“Yes. You must have thought me dreadfully lazy before.”

“Of course not. It was obvious you needed to rest. I expect you were awake half the night a lot of the time, weren't you?”

“How did you guess?”

“I've been through it,” the woman said simply. “Believe me, I know all about it. The sleepless nights, the days that you have to drag yourself through. You're lucky you had Mr. Ryland to help you.”

Rinsing her dishes, Celeste said, “Yes. He's been very good.”

“Mind you, there have been times when I've wondered. . .”

“Wondered what?”

“Oh, I don't know. Your husband was his brother, wasn't he?”

“Stepbrother.”

“Yes, well, he was bereaved, too, wasn't he? Mr. Ryland. He hasn't been himself since. Very tense, I thought. I must say, I've heard him speak to you a bit sharply once or twice. Sorry, dear, I wasn't meaning to eavesdrop, but you know you can't help hearing things sometimes. It's not a big house.”

“I understand,” Celeste said.

“Yes. It just didn't seem like him, somehow. I mean, he's never said a cross word to me. But of course, relatives are different, and we humans are funny critters. Take out our worst feelings on our loved ones, don't we? When we lost our girl, you know our marriage almost broke up over it. You'd think it would bring us closer, but grief can be very selfish sometimes—does strange things to people. She was sick, you see, for three days. And we didn't think, at first, it could be serious. But it was. Meningitis. Afterwards, my husband kept saying I should have noticed sooner how sick she was. He was beside himself, didn't know what he was saying. But I felt guilty enough already without him— Well, it's all over now.”

Celeste shivered. “I'm so sorry,” she murmured.

“Oh, we box along all right,” Mrs. Jackson said, with her usual brisk manner. “Only. . .” A look of infinite sadness crossed her face. “Things will never be quite the same.” Changing the subject, she said, “Mr. Ryland's in his workroom, is he?”

“Ethan had to fly to the mainland,” Celeste said. “He had a phone call very early and left on the morning flight.”

“I see. Well, I'll give his workroom a good going over, then, and maybe do the windows.”

“I'll go up and change my bed,” Celeste said, her cheeks warming as she remembered the state of it. “I'll get his sheets for you, too,” she offered. “Oh, there's no need for you to—”

“It's all right. No trouble,” Celeste assured her. Ethan's bed had not been slept in. Somehow she didn't want Mrs. Jackson to realise that.

She had never been in his room before. It had white-painted furniture like hers, but the bed cover was deep olive green, and a mat of the same colour lay on the floor. A digital clock glowed on the table by the bed, and alongside it was a large framed photograph of Alec. A laughing, full-length picture, taken when he was younger and still physically fit, standing with his hands casually in the pockets of a parka, a backpack strapped about his shoulders. And tucked into the frame, obscuring his legs, was an envelope with his writing on it.

Celeste stood looking at it, going slowly cold all over. She knew what it was. The last letter he had ever written to Ethan. The one that had arrived after his death.

Resolutely, she dragged her gaze away and began to strip the bed. When she took the sheets downstairs with her own, Mrs. Jackson was in the laundry, removing a load from the washing machine that she must have put on when she first arrived.

“I'll change the beds,” Celeste told her, and walked away before the woman could argue.

She did hers first, then went back to the linen cupboard and pulled out clean sheets for the other bed. As she made it up, the letter and the photograph seemed to burn into her consciousness. She was quite unable to ignore them.

At last she smoothed the cover over the pillows, and straightened. Her eyes were compelled to the envelope. Ethan had once practically challenged her to read it. Did that constitute permission? She shrank from the idea, but at the same time it drew her. Later, when she had asked to read it, he said he doubted she was well enough to take what it contained. Now she was well. She felt strong, alive, even angry. She had a right to know just what she had to fight against for Ethan's love.

Downstairs the vacuum cleaner hummed, and she thought,
Not now, not while Mrs. Jackson is in the house
. She carefully removed the envelope from the photo frame and took it into her own room. Opening the drawer of the bedside table, she slipped it inside.

When the housekeeper had left, Celeste made herself lunch and washed up afterward. Then she spent some time staring out the window of the living room, watching the sunlight play over the blue water, the trees moving gently in the slightest of breezes. Jeff appeared at the top of the path, and she quelled a feeling of annoyance mingled with relief as he waved and came towards her.

“Ethan isn't here,” she said, going to meet him. “Did you want to see him?”

“Not especially. Came to see you, as a matter of fact.” He regarded her curiously. “Recovered all right from last night?”

Her head jerked up and she flushed, before she realised what he meant. “Yes, thanks. And thank you again for taking me. I really enjoyed it.”

“Want to do it again sometime?”

“Maybe,” she said noncommittally.

“You were up early,” he commented.

Her eyes swung to his face. “How do you know?”

“Saw you and Ethan in the water,” he said.

“You were up early, too. Why. . . why didn't you come in and join us?”

“Well. . . I thought you might be shy. Haven't seen you swimming like that before. It kinda looked like a private party. So I just turned around and went home again.”

Fleetingly worried and embarrassed, she was sure he had done just what he said. Jeff was no voyeur. She said, “I'm sorry if we spoilt your morning swim.”

He grinned. “Don't worry about that.” He paused. “You look. . . different.”

“Do I?” She glanced away from him. “Ethan's on the mainland—for a few days, I think,” she said, and explained about the early morning call.

“You can rely on me for company,” Jeff promised, “if you get lonely. As a friend,” he added, with emphasis.

She smiled at him, knowing he had guessed at something between her and Ethan, but would refrain from asking. “Thanks,” she said.

“Want me to go away?” he asked her quizzically.

“No, of course not!” She invited him to sit down, and they chatted for a time before he got up, stretched and said, “I'm for a swim. Care to come, too?” Slanting her a grin, he added, “With or without your swimsuit.”

She laughed. “No, I don't think so, thanks. I've had a swim today.”

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, with a wicked look, and she said with dignity, “It was nice of you to call. Enjoy yourself.”