No More Lonely Nights (9 page)

‘What’s the pub called?’ she asked, wondering how he had met a jazz musician who cooked like an angel. Of course, there was no point in being curious about him or his life because after today they weren’t going to be meeting.

He talked about the pub for several minutes, then asked her, ‘How long have you been in journalism?’

Sian realised he was only making polite conversation, but she answered him because anything was better than sitting next to him, brooding over the weird effect he had on her, or sensing him brooding over Annette. At least he wasn’t doing that while he chatted about jazz and Fleet Street.

‘Ever since I left school and joined the local newspaper,’ she told him.

‘You’ve done well to get this far!’ he commented, eyeing her speculatively. ‘You must be good or you wouldn’t be working in Fleet Street at your age. You can’t be much more than twenty-three or four.’

She laughed. ‘How flattering! Try twenty-five.’ Almost twenty-six, actually, she thought, but why be utterly frank with him? Somehow twenty-five didn’t sound as old as twenty-six, although she couldn’t quite say why.

He shrugged. ‘That’s still pretty young.’ He grinned suddenly at her. ‘I speak from experience. I can give you ten years.’

She had guessed his age, but he looked younger at times. He was very fit, very lean; his body had the suppleness of a much younger man. She secretly assessed him, her eyes flicking down over him, then up again. As her gaze reached his face, she found him watching her, his mouth crooked with amusement. Sian went red and looked away, burning with embarrassment.

‘Well?’ he murmured teasingly.

‘Well what?’ She was furious because, for all her efforts to sound cool, she knew her voice was husky.

‘Do I pass?’

She hesitated, torn between rage and laughter, then gave in and laughed. ‘Oh, you’d do, on a dark night,’ she said, and he laughed too, his head thrown back and his laughter open and full of enjoyment.

Sian was still very hot, and stared out of the window at the grey mass of London’s huddled streets as they drove towards the centre, off the motorway. Then Cass turned towards the river to follow it along its curving path, through sprawling suburbs, until they reached the riverside pub, a whitewashed Georgian building set in a garden of lawns and flowerbeds, with willows edging the riverbank just below it.

Cass was right; it was packed with people that Sunday lunch time, and there were cars parked like sardines in the large car park adjoining it, but the landlord welcomed Cass with a wide grin and friendly eyes which held an unspoken sympathy. He must have read about the wedding fiasco, but he didn’t breathe a word about it.

‘A table in the garden? Of course, I’ll get Nell to lay it right away. There isn’t anyone else out there, today; you’ll have the garden to yourself. But come and have a drink with me in my office first. It’s ages since we saw you here.’

‘I’ve been busy, I’m afraid,’ Cass said, following him into a tiny room, just big enough for a desk covered with papers and a couple of filing-cabinets. Cass sat down on the window-seat which was piled with red velvet cushions, and patted the place next to him, gesturing for Sian to sit there.

The landlord asked what they would drink and poured them glasses, handing them over with a smile as he saw Sian staring at the four walls which were crowded with sketches in pen and pencil: some quite lovely landscapes, others funny and often savage cartoons.

‘Didn’t Cass tell you I drew?’

‘You did them all?’

Her stupefaction made him laugh, brushing his long brown hair back from his thin face.

‘All of them, I’m afraid. Whenever I get five minutes to myself, I open my sketchpad.’

‘Cass only told me you cooked!’

Danny roared. ‘Isn’t that typical? He’s a materialist, our Cass—just interested in the body, not the soul. Isn’t that so, Cass?’

‘Let’s say the pleasures of the body are easier to get hold of!’

Sian laughed, then met his eyes and flushed, the mockery in his glance reminding her of her own covert assessment of him in the car not long ago.

‘But isn’t jazz soul music?’ Cass asked Danny lightly. ‘You know I love jazz. Doesn’t that qualify?’

‘OK, I take it back—you do have some unmaterialistic tendencies,’ Danny agreed, grinning. ‘But not many. Nobody who has made as much money as you have can be anything but materialistic.’

‘What’s wrong with a little ambition? Sian, you’re ambitious, aren’t you?’

‘To be a good journalist, yes,’ she agreed.

‘To be a success,’ Cass insisted, and she had to admit he was right.

‘Just as Danny once dreamt of being a great jazzman,’ Cass drawled, grinning, and Danny made a face at him.

‘You wouldn’t have minded that yourself!’ he teased, and Cass laughed.

‘Really? You wanted to play jazz?’ asked Sian, eyes widening in disbelief.

‘He certainly did, once upon a time, before the business bug hit him,’ Danny told her, an eye on Cass, who was looking wryly amused.

‘What did you play?’ asked Sian. Then grinning, she added, ‘Don’t tell me—your own trumpet!’

Danny roared and Cass pretended to punch her. ‘Very funny, but it was clarinet, actually, and a little bit of sax.’

‘Did you say sex?’ asked Danny innocently, and Cass pulled a face at him.

‘She knows I meant saxophone, so don’t try that old chestnut on her, or I won’t send a man down to mend your computer next time it breaks down.’

‘Talking about that…’ Danny began, and Cass interrupted quickly.

‘Not on your life! I’m not looking at it now. I’m hungry and it’s Sunday and I want my lunch.’ He finished his drink and stood up. ‘Come on, Sian, let’s get out into the garden before he drags me off to his den.’

The garden was lovely: a small, isolated part of the public gardens, walled off and secret, with rambling roses spilling torrents of red and gold flowers down the walls, lavender scenting the air, a sycamore giving shade and a table and chairs placed on a little patio for them to eat under a yellow umbrella.

‘How long have you known Danny?’ Sian asked at one point, and Cass shrugged.

‘Years now. I was twenty, so was he. He was playing jazz up at Cambridge while I was in college there; he was a student too that year, but he got sent down because he never did a stroke of work. Just made music in the local pubs and clubs. I thought his was a great life for a while. I sat in on some of their sessions in my spare time but, unlike Danny, I did work. My family expected it, and I didn’t have either the courage or the motivation to take Danny’s route. So I stayed and went into business, and Danny dropped out. He did OK. He’s got this place and a lot of friends. He still plays jazz when he feels like it, and we’ve always kept in touch. He’s a nice guy.’

Sian nodded, agreeing, but as she watched the river flowing under the slanting green willows, she thought that Cass was quite a nice guy, too, and full of surprises. She would never have suspected him of wanting to be a jazz musician.

‘Why electronics?’ she asked him idly, and he answered the same way, in between eating the duck which was their second course.

‘Who knows why? As Danny says, I got the bug. Computers came along while I was still young enough to get obsessed with them the way Danny was about jazz. I’m one of those lucky people, in fact, whose hobby is their way of earning a living.’ He smiled at her across the table, sunlight turning his grey eyes silver. ‘Like yourself!’

Her heart gave a funny little sideways kick and she flushed, as if he might be able to tell what his smile had done to her heartbeat. Her eyes fled and hunted across the garden, but she felt Cass watching her—but thinking what?

‘You were right, this food is marvellous,’ she said huskily, although she hadn’t really thought about what she was eating and couldn’t quite remember the first course. Had it been a tossed salad with croutons and hot cheese? Or hadn’t it? She hadn’t tasted a thing or looked properly. She had been looking at Cass and watching dappled sunlight playing over his face and hair.

‘Isn’t it?’ he drawled, but something in his voice made her doubly self-conscious. She didn’t dare look at him again.

When they had drunk their excellent coffee, they went for a stroll along the river under the willows. The afternoon was hot, and there were lots of other people out, some walking, others rowing a boat on the water with the ducks scattering around them, squawking and demanding bread.

They sat down on the grass under a shady tree and talked for a while, but Sian tried not to catch his eye or let the conversation touch on anything personal or intimate. She kept their talk firmly centred on books, films, television, current affairs, and skimmed over the surface even then. She did not want to get too close to him or let him get too close.

Perhaps she had known on sight, or perhaps the realisation had grown on her gradually—but she was now quite convinced that this man could hurt her, and she wasn’t going to let that happen.

They went back to the pub and chatted to Danny for a while, then said goodbye and drove back into London. Sian firmly intended to say goodbye to Cass in the car. She did not want him in her flat; partly because that would be like letting him into her life, the really private core of her life. She might see him in the rooms when he wasn’t there, just as when she leaned back in the car and closed her eyes she still saw his dark, lean face glimmering on the inside of her lids.

He could easily become an obsession. Sian didn’t want that. When they drew up outside the building, she hurriedly began to gabble a thank you, her hand on the door-handle.

‘Wonderful meal, lovely place to spend a Sunday, thank you very much and I hope Annette’s father gets over his heart attack and everything is OK.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, thank you, goodbye.’

She didn’t dare look at him. She swung her legs out and quickly slammed the car door behind her, almost running across the pavement. She heard his voice behind her and ran faster, until the sound was too far away to hear. She didn’t stop running until she was inside her flat with the door firmly closed; then she leaned on the door, breathing hard and torn between relief and a funny seeping feeling of depression.

She would never see him again. She was glad about that. She never wanted to see him again; she could do very well without a man in her life at the moment. Men were too much trouble: they wanted too much of you, they demanded more than just your attention now and then, they resented everything else in your life if it came between you and them. Louis had been violent about it!

It must be their mothers, Sian decided, straightening with a sigh. Mothers encouraged their sons to think the world revolved around them.

The doorbell rang loudly and she jumped about six feet in the air, staring at the door with round eyes and an open mouth.

The bell rang again, even more loudly. Sian reluctantly opened the door and Cass stood there.

‘Look—’ she began aggressively, then stopped as he held out her handbag.

‘You were in such a hurry that you left this in the car.’

She groaned. ‘Oh, thanks. Sorry.’

‘So why?’ he asked, ominously advancing.

‘Why what?’ Sian tried to block his way without being too obvious about it.

‘Why the hurry?’ He sauntered round her, as if unaware that she was trying to keep him out, and she didn’t like to be rude or ask him to go. Flustered, she looked up at him and then wished she hadn’t, because his grey eyes were amused, and looking up reminded her how tall he was and how much she was attracted to him.

‘Oh,’ she said, confused. ‘The hurry? Yes, well, I have a lot to do.’

His dark brows rose in incredulous arches. ‘At this hour?’

‘I start work again tomorrow, after my holiday,’ she said huskily, her throat hot.

His expression changed, darkened. ‘You weren’t planning on writing any more stories about me and Annette, I hope? I thought we had an agreement about that.’

Sian blinked; nothing had been further from her mind than Annette or the office, yet under his stare she became guilty, her colour rising.

‘You were!’ Cass concluded, black-browed, eyes glittering. ‘I must have been crazy to think I could trust a reporter! You’ve been playing some devious little game, have you? Lulling my suspicions, getting me to talk about myself. I was stupid enough to fall for it, too! God knows what I’ve been telling you.’

As he bit out the angry sentences he advanced on her and Sian backed away, her dazed eyes wide with alarm. She was too stunned to argue or deny it, she just shook her head helplessly, like a fool, until she found herself in the sitting-room; tripping over the leg of a chair she didn’t see until too late.

She gave a muffled cry and instinctively clutched at the nearest stable object, which turned out to be Cass, who promptly caught her before she fell headlong, but looked at her with such rage that she wished she had grabbed at something else.

‘I’ve a good mind to…’ he began thickly, staring down at her, then his eyes moved downwards to fix on her startled, parted lips.

He was silent, staring. Sian breathed roughly, trembling, watching him and hanging on to him with both hands because she was still off balance, and if he let go of her she would tumble to the floor. She tried to say something, but not a sound came out before Cass slowly lowered his head towards her.

Sian’s thoughts were a battleground. Common sense told her to stop him, push him away, before this went any further, but the irrational, emotional side of her had other ideas, had been having them ever since she met William Cassidy. She had been attracted from that first look, and she was dying to know how it felt to kiss him, to be kissed.

Curiosity killed the cat. She closed her eyes and her mouth parted to meet his. In the warm, smothering darkness of the kiss she forgot everything else for a while; her head spun and her body seemed boneless. How was it possible to stand on your own two feet and stay upright when your flesh was melting and on fire? She clung to him weakly and felt his hands moving: sliding and stroking along her back, holding her closer, caressing her, a sensual, intimate exploration which echoed what she wanted, what she was doing to him—touching his neck, his back, his powerful chest.