Oriental Hotel (34 page)

Even now he seemed distant and almost unreal; despite the shaming guilt which had begun to creep into the idyll, even now the reality was the warm glow, the floating sensation, with her body the centre of the universe.

How had it happened? she wondered. She was not really sure, except that the chemistry which worked each time she was with Brit had taken over in spite of all her good intentions.

I love him, she thought as she had thought last night when lying in his arms; and it was not an earth-shattering revelation but a statement of fact. I love him and I want to be with him. When I am not with him, I think it will be enough just to see him and hear his voice. But when I
am
with him, I discover it is not enough …

And Brit? What did he feel? When they were together, when the chemistry was working so that the very air between them seemed highly charged, she was sure he felt the same way. Surely it took two to create that force-field? But he had never actually said anything definite, and even the looks they had exchanged could be open to misinterpretation. He had been good to her, yes, but perhaps he just felt sorry for her? And although they had ended up last night by making love, he had only come to her room originally to apologise for his drunken behaviour the night before and to tell her their passage had been arranged …

Again the sinking sensation. Such a short time ago, it seemed, she had been anxious to get back to Hong Kong as soon as possible. Now, with Brit filling her world from horizon to horizon, the journey had taken on a different perspective.

It mustn't! she thought. You have a husband and son – remember that! But it was too late. Last night she had betrayed them both with her body, and now she was still betraying them with her heart …

She twisted her head impatiently on the pillow, trying to marshal her thoughts. If they were to sail tomorrow, there were things to be done – the hotel dressmaker warned to finish the gowns by tonight at the latest, a maid briefed to do her packing – and she must telephone Hong Kong to let Gordon know she was on her way again.

With the memory of last night still fresh in her mind, she shrank from the thought of speaking to him, but it had to be faced. She sat up, reaching for the telephone in order to place the call.

‘So you're awake, then!'

She jumped, dropping the telephone on to the table with a clatter and turning, startled, towards the voice. Brit was emerging from the bathroom wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was damp and droplets of moisture still clung to the thick dark mat that ran down the centre of his chest. His legs, covered with a thinner growth of hair, were strong and tanned against the soft white of the towel. He looked totally male and almost primitive and she felt her own body soften in response.

‘Brit! I didn't know you were there!'

‘Where did you think I was, then?'

‘I don't know.' It seemed foolish, suddenly, to say she had thought he had gone back to his own room. Sleeping apart after love-making was for hypocrites – which was something Brit would never be.

‘You were still asleep, so I decided to have my bath.' His tone was conversational, but she felt his eyes on her nude body and almost unconsciously lifted the sheet to cover her breasts.

‘Don't do that!'

He crossed the floor and the side of the bed dipped under his weight. One arm still moist from the bath slid around her back; the other found its way beneath the sheet, his fingers fanning out across her breast.

Guilt, sharp and disturbing, enveloped her.

But his touch was sending sharp needles of desire through her body and she knew she would not make any protest. She wanted him,
loved him
, needed him again with a hunger that was devouring her, body and soul.

She tilted her head back againsr the pillow, arching her body to his, while the waves of sensuous delight spread out from the warm centre where his fingers caressed her breast.

‘Who were you going to phone?' he asked.

‘Gordon.' She said it lazily, not thinking of the implications. Her mind was still occupied with the sensations that ran in ripples through her body. But the name was no sooner out than she felt him stiffen and his fingers ceased their caressing movement.

‘Your husband!'

Something like panic assailed her. Don't talk about him! she wanted to say. Don't make him real! Instead she heard herself explain, ‘I have to let him know I'm on my way.'

‘Oh yes, of course. So that he can come to meet you. That would naturally be the first thing you would think about this morning!'

He rose from the bed in one fluid movement, crossed to where his trousers were flung over the back of a chair and took out his cigarettes.

Her body was still tingling with awareness; now it also ached with frustration and loss.

‘Brit – what's the matter?'

‘Nothing.' His tone was very hard, very cold. ‘I'm going to get dressed and go down for breakfast, that's all.'

‘Oh, don't go! Not yet!'

‘Why?'

‘Not without me!'

‘Why not?'

‘But last night …'

He turned, the cigarette held between his lips as he stepped into his trousers, pulled them up, buckled them about his waist.

‘Last night was good. But don't try to hang on to it.'

She felt the pleasure draining out of her.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know as well as I do. It was very enjoyable, but don't try to make a big thing out of it. You've got a husband who will be waiting for you in Singapore, don't forget!'

She couldn't answer. She had begun to tremble and inexplicably tears were very close.

‘Look – what happened last night was bound to happen some time. You must have known that as well as I.'

‘You mean …' The tears were closer, forcing her eyes wide open because she knew that to blink would make them spill over. ‘You mean it meant nothing to you? Nothing at all?'

He shrugged. ‘ I wouldn't say that. But keep it in perspective, for Christ's sake. Your husband will be meeting you in Singapore in three or four days' time. Where does that leave me?'

Her hands were knotting in the sheet. She didn't know what he was saying, didn't much care. All she knew was that everything that seemed wonderful had shattered, blown up like a Roman Candle – one brilliant, beautiful blaze dying away to a black empty stick. In a moment he was going to walk out of this room and away from her, shrouded in this cold, arrogant mantle. And she couldn't bear it.

‘Why does it have to leave you anywhere?' she asked desperately.

‘Because I know women. Too emotional by half – can't enjoy a bit of fun without calling it love.'

‘I never said that!'
Judas
! screamed her heart.

‘Well, if you didn't, you're different from any woman I ever met before. And I can do without that kind of involvement. I don't want a duel at dawn with a cuckolded husband.'

‘You wouldn't … It wouldn't be like that …'

‘No?'

‘No! Brit, please … don't go like this! We were good together – we were special. I never felt that way before – never really enjoyed it – but last night …'

A muscle in his cheek moved and for a long moment his eyes, narrow and thoughtful, remained on her face. Then he leaned over to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray before standing up and unbuckling his trousers once more.

‘Move over.'

Breath caught in her throat and tears were a hot blur in her eyes. She tried to speak, but no words would come and as he touched her she began trembling again in sharp waves.

For one perverse moment the knife-edge of guilt was back. Then, as his body kissed hers, she felt herself open to him like the petals of a sea anemone and the strength of her passion swallowed up guilt, doubts and responsibilities as they touched, ignited and merged to one.

One day. One beautiful stolen day.

It was all they would ever have and she tried to pretend to herself that it would be enough.

Brit was, she thought, the perfect lover – generous, caring and yet totally dominant. Once, as his teeth raked her breasts with savage passion, she writhed, moaning softly, and he raised his mouth to ask against her skin:

‘Does your husband love you like this?'

The reference to Gordon might have catapulted her back to reality, but it did not. She only shook her head from side to side on the pillow, twisting her fingers in his hair and returning some of the sweet pain he was inflicting on her.

Gordon had never loved her like this and she would not have wanted him to. He had been a father figure to her, gentle, loving and protective – in fact, in the beginning it had shocked her oddly that he should make love to her at all.

It was not that she had been ignorant when they were married, and during their courtship she had enjoyed cuddling up to him and experienced a pleasant warmth when he kissed her. But in their marriage bed his first overtures, though gentle and considerate, had seemed almost indecent to her. She had told herself it was foolish and wrong to feel that he was betraying her in some way by turning from indulgent protector to aggressor, and gradually she had grown used to his love-making and even come to enjoy it as an extension of the affectionate but chaste embraces of their engagement.

But never had she experienced this explosion of desire, never felt the overwhelming need to touch and be touched that consumed her now, never known the tingling awareness as if her skin had melted away leaving every nerve ending exposed and yearning, never been swept to the dizzying heights and then gently lowered, plateau by plateau, into the warm, sweet valley of total satisfaction.

Lying in his arms, tasting the faintly salt tang of his shoulder beneath her tongue, letting her legs tangle with his and hollowing her body to accommodate him, she luxuriated in the completeness of total bliss.

Only one thing was missing.

‘I love him!' she thought, a dozen rimes over. But she dared not say it aloud. Brit had made it plain enough that he did not want that kind of commitment. If she forced it on him his mood might change just as it had that morning. It was easy to imagine him swinging away from her and walking straight-backed to the door, and the thought made her heart contract within her.

Dear God, I love him! I've known it since the
Maid of Darjeeling
was torpedoed, only I wouldn't admit it. I love him and it's the most glorious thing that ever happened to me. But unless I can tell him so – ask him if he loves me too – how can it be perfect?

Once or twice in the quiet moments she remembered that she had not called Hong Kong, and thinking of it was a small sharp barb, pricking at the cocoon of delight but not strong enough to pierce it. Later … later she would put the call through. Later … but not just yet …

At lunchtime they emerged for iced drinks, then Brit suggested they should take a trip, up Penang Hill on the funicular railway.

Elise agreed reluctantly; she wanted nothing more than to stay with him in the privacy of her room. But outside in the bright sunshine she discovered she felt different here too – somehow softer, and more yielding. As she walked beside him, not touching, it was as if they were joined by invisible strings; the electricity was still there, sparking sometimes when their eyes met, generating pleasure that spread through her whole body.

There was a dreamlike quality about the ride in the funicular, sitting close together on the wooden seats of the crowded cabin as it climbed steeply through several layers of jungle vegetation to a cool, semi-tropical atmosphere where the gardens were full of roses and gardenias. It complemented her mood perfectly: this, she thought, was how she would always remember it – hazy, almost unreal, a stolen hiatus in a harsh world.

Back at the E & O he followed her into her room, putting his arms around her and pulling her close so that her shoulders and back fitted against his chest.

‘I have a suggestion to make. Let's forget dinner and stay here.'

She laughed, tilting her head back so that she could look up at his face, strangely angled and upside-down.

‘Starve, you mean?'

‘No! We'll have champagne sent up, and oysters. And maybe a Chateaubriand steak or two.'

‘You certainly
don't
mean starve!'

‘No, but I
do
intend to work up an appetite. Come here, Mrs Sanderson. Do you know it's at least six hours since I made love to you?'

The laughter died and she felt herself melt. He turned her, lifting her off her feet and holding her for a moment high against his chest so that she was looking down at him. Then he carried her to the bed.

‘You know you drive me crazy!' He was unfastening her dress, his breath not against her throat and his words muffled.

Luxurious delight stirred in her as she pressed against him, seeking new areas to sensitise.

‘Do I?'

Say you love me! Say it, please!

‘You make me forget all sorts of things I ought to remember.'

‘Why? Why do you forget?'
Say it
! Because you love me.
Say it
!

‘Because you have sexy eyes …' – he kissed them – ‘and a sexy mouth …' – he kissed that – ‘and sexy …' His mouth began to trace the line of her throat, down towards her breasts, and the disappointment was a sharp sweet pain. He wouldn't say he loved her. But at least he was here …

She raised her body, thrusting her breast towards his seeking mouth, and as the physical pain predominated she pushed aside the desire to have him put his love into words. Tomorrow she would worry about it, along with all the other worries tomorrow would bring. For the moment she would take what she had and glory in it.

A while later he stretched and disentangled his limbs from hers.

‘I ought to go and get showered and dressed, then.'