That Tender Feeling (14 page)

‘Time to put on your housecoat,' he instructed, starting off a slow, sweet explosion of feeling in her stomach. ‘I'll make us a bedtime drink.'

Ros went upstairs, undressed and reached for her housecoat. Without stopping to deliberate, she knew that it was the only garment she would put on. The soft touch of velvet felt good against her skin. When she came back down, she looked for the joke slip about the girl kissing a lot of frogs before she found her prince, but she couldn't find it. It must have got cleared away with the rest of the debris. It didn't matter.

Cliff appeared carrying two mugs of hot chocolate. They drank it in drowsy content, their eyes meeting in question . . . answer . . . and then anticipation.

As he put out a hand to assist her to her feet, the tingling awareness that his kisses had aroused vibrated in her fingertips. They went up the stairs, down the passage to the cozy end room.

The housecoat she had just put on, Cliff proceeded to take off. Sliding the first button free, he said, ‘You're right. Unwrapping a present is exciting fun, but it isn't the best part.'

That had been a joking statement, a quip of the moment best forgotten. She wished he'd stop harping on about it. It made her feel cheap. Because he didn't suspect that she knew what she did, he couldn't know what had motivated her. He probably thought she was hot for him. But she wanted him to think that she had no deeper motivation than that so that he would neither feel humiliated by her unacceptable compassion nor guilty for his selfishness in taking what she was so selflessly giving? Of course she did. But she also wanted him to think well of her. She couldn't have it all ways. It wouldn't make her feel good if she made him feel bad.

‘I didn't say it was the best part, Cliff.'

‘No, you didn't.'

A pulse fluttered in her throat as he dealt with the second button.

‘What's the matter?' he asked.

Had she tensed away? ‘Nothing.'

Neither of them had bothered to shut the curtains, and a pale moon glanced in at the window. As the third button was undone, Cliff's smoldering eyes ran down her throat, the white gleam of her collarbone, to the beauty of her breasts, which cast moon shadows on his hands as he undid the fourth button, exposing her skin to the fragile, silvery glimmer.

As he lifted his face, the soft light carved his strong features into strange planes and thrust his eyes into deep, unreadable hollows. There was a harshness about the silver-sheened mask. His voice matched the hardness of his mouth but quivered with the same passion of feeling that she sensed she would have read in his eyes if their expression hadn't been hidden from her. ‘You look like a moon goddess, a strange, ethereal maiden from another planet. Will you be spirited away if I touch you?'

‘Why don't you . . . find out for yourself?' she invited in a choked, hushed voice.

He put a hand on either side of her face. ‘So far so good. So
good
,' he repeated, his voice little more than a guttural groan as he proceeded to kiss her on the mouth. His hands transferred to her throat and eased the housecoat from her shoulders. The velvet material sighed softly past her hips. He looked at her for a long moment; then she was lost, clinging to him as he carried her to the bed.

His hands and mouth adored her face, her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, before leaving her for a moment to quiver in expectancy, returning to slide his naked body against hers. Her arms curved round his neck, her hands followed the thick muscled cords and dug into his hair as she pressed her awakened body closer to his.

He was so vital, so alive. He made
her
feel vital and alive. How could he be going to die? How could he accept it so calmly? Be so brave? She wished she were braver. Oh, dear Lord, she was going to cry again. She
was
crying. Tears filled her eyes; hopelessly, helplessly, they fell down her cheeks.

‘I'm sorry, Cliff.'

‘Sorry!' he spluttered.

‘I'm not brave like you.' Oh, dear, she must be careful what she said.

‘Brave? What are you talking about? You don't get awards of gallantry for this pastime.'

And still he could joke!

Her admiration for him knew no bounds as she said, ‘Take no notice of me. I'm being silly. It's nothing.'

‘Nothing! One moment you're a woman inviting me to make love to you, and the next you're blubbering like a child because I am. I wish you'd make up your mind what you want.'

‘I have. I know what I want.'

She kept her chin tucked into her neck. She dared not look at him. A few moments ago, the moon sliding in on them had seemed beautifully romantic; now she wished it would hide its face behind a cloud so that she couldn't see Cliff's face. She didn't want to see what his expression revealed. It wasn't the anger she knew would be in his eyes that she cringed from but the contempt. What must he think of her? Whatever it was, it was no worse than what she thought of herself.

‘Do you?' he asked, his fury held on a very short rein. ‘I disagree. You're about as mixed up as anyone can be, and you're mixing me up, too. I'd be fully justified in showing you that you're not getting away with this. The frustrating part of it is, I don't know what it is you're doing, even though I know all too well what it's doing to me. The old brain box is telling me this is a deliberate and subtle play upon my emotions. On the other hand, my reason is overruling the cynic in me and stressing emphatically that you're not consciously cold and calculating but warm and impulsive. Do me a favor, curb those impulses until you can follow through. There isn't a man on earth who could stand this sort of treatment.'

‘Cliff . . . please . . . don't go.'

‘Be reasonable, Ros. Would there be any point in my staying?'

‘I don't know.'

But as she watched him walk away, she made no attempt to call him back again, because she knew that he was right. They couldn't get together until she got herself together. It was no good having noble thoughts and no backbone.

* * *

It stopped snowing on Boxing Day and a steady thaw set in. The roads were slushy but passable. The mood between them was still slightly frosty, but not bad, all things considered. She couldn't quibble if Cliff was short-tempered with her, because she felt that it was her fault. She knew she was going to have to pare off some of the precious time they had together to come to terms with the situation. She had to get herself in hand so that she could be a comfort to him, not the irritation and source of anger and annoyance she was. The clear roads would serve a double purpose. She could get to the New Year's Day book-signing session she had promised to do and perhaps sort herself out at the same time.

On telling Cliff that business called her back to town, he asked, ‘What business?'

‘It's to do with my writing.'

‘Oh—the book you're on with? How to catch your man?' he said, referring to the theme she had mentioned when first telling him about it.

‘Mm.' She had regained her confidence on the cooking front and could now own to the truth. ‘Through his stomach. It's a cookbook. But my business isn't to do with that book; it's the one before it. I'm doing a book-signing session.'

‘On the same subject, I take it, if I read that gloating smile right. Yes? Well, in all fairness, I must admit that you'd be an extremely good cook if your concentration didn't wander.' She glared at him because they both knew that he was responsible for that but made no comment. He continued, ‘It's getting so that I'm not surprised at anything you do.' His frown could have meant that some of the surprises were not to his liking or indicated displeasure that she was going away. ‘How long will you be gone?'

‘I think I should plan on two nights. I'll leave here on New Year's Eve day and return on the second of January.' It was uplifting to know that he expected her to come back.

* * *

It was a long journey. Normally, she liked driving, but the fact that she was driving away from Cliff robbed her of the pleasure of being behind the wheel. Yet when she arrived, making straight for the house where Miles and his sister Hannah lived, a glow of happiness shot through her at seeing her agent and very good friend again. Her
two
good friends, because she had always got on well with Hannah in spite of frequently bridling at the older woman's bossy and managing manner.

Taking both her hands and pressing them to his lips, Miles said, ‘Good to see you, Ros. How are you?'

‘I'm fine. How are you?'

‘Making it do.'

‘Rosalynd, my dear.' Hannah was the only person who called her by her full name. ‘How are you
really
?' She wasn't as easily taken in as her brother, and there was speculation in the shrewd blue eyes.

Miles saved her from answering by asking, ‘Where are you staying?'

Had she told him she'd given up her flat? She didn't think so. But obviously he'd heard. Just how much had he heard? she wondered. Did he know about Jarvis and Glenis?

This time she was forestalled by Hannah. ‘She's staying with us, of course, Miles. Where else did you think? Go and garage Rosalynd's car, and bring in her suitcase.'

Ros sighed. She wondered how she was going to get it across to Hannah that she was all right and that she didn't want to be tucked under her wing.

Miles didn't look to Ros to see if that arrangement was suitable to her and sealed Ros's immediate fate by obeying his sister's command. Hannah had a quiet authority about her that usually got her her own way, and if Ros were truthful, she would be more comfortable there than booking into a hotel as she had planned. Moreover, she realized how ungrateful she was being by her lack of response. She knew that Hannah's warm generosity in wanting her should be rewarded with a smile.

Her mouth curved dutifully. ‘Thank you, Hannah. That's very kind of you.'

She didn't doubt that it was well meant, but Ros found Hannah's concern far from comforting, much preferring Miles's hoodwinked and blinkered attitude. It would have pleased her if Hannah had been equally unobservant and not seen the sorrow hiding behind her smile. However, Hannah didn't use Miles's absence to pump her, although Ros knew she wasn't getting off this lightly and that it would come later.

Hannah took her up to the pretty guest room. Because it was south facing, getting whatever sunshine was going, the color scheme was predominantly blue and white. Blue carpet flecked with white. Blue and white patterned wallpaper, with warm splashes of color in the pink bedspread and the pink, hand-crocheted mats on the dressing table and chest of drawers.

‘These are beautiful,' Ros said, touching one. ‘One of these days I'm going to learn to crochet.'

‘Really!' Hannah drawled in amusement. ‘A little old lady does them for me.'

Ros hadn't thought for a moment that she was admiring Hannah's handiwork. Hannah was a tall, cool blonde. Ros knew that she was slightly older than Miles, which would put her in her early forties, but she didn't look it. Ros had once said to Miles that she couldn't understand why Hannah had never married. Miles had confided with a dry shaft of humor that it was his opinion that his sister had never found a man she wanted to boss sufficiently enough to marry him.

‘I think you'll be comfortable here,' Hannah said.

‘I'm sure I will be. It's a lovely room, a tribute to your exquisite taste.'

‘Thank you. I hope you don't mind my saying this.'

Ros's heart plummeted. When someone prefaced a sentence with that, it was usually something you did mind.

‘. . . even though I don't know the reason for your breakup with Jarvis, I want you to know that I'm backing your judgment. I think you did the right thing in walking out on him, and you'll be doing the wrong thing if you go back to him.'

Ros's spirits lifted. She didn't mind talking about Jarvis. There was no hurt there anymore. She'd thought that Hannah wanted to pry out of her what had happened in Yorkshire, and she wanted to keep Cliff to herself. It was too special and private to be subjected to even the kindest curiosity. Moreover, though she might hate Hannah's overbearing interference, she knew it was motivated by the best of intentions. A heart of pure gold beat behind the plastic facade that Hannah put on. Ros had nothing to back that notion, but she thought that Hannah deliberately erected that protective shell round herself. She put on a ‘How quaint!' look and pretended to scoff at homely things, like, for example, hand-crocheted mats, so that no one could know the real Hannah. Had someone—a man—gotten too close to Hannah, and had she been hurt?

‘I haven't much faith in men as a species, except for Miles, of course, and Jarvis is a pretty odious specimen,' Hannah said.

Oh, yes, Ros was certain that she was on the right track.

‘Naturally, he's giving it out that the engagement was broken off by mutual consent.'

‘And you don't believe him?' Ros said. ‘You are right. But perhaps face-saving untruth is better than nasty mud raking.'

‘How nasty? Very? Or only a little?'

‘Only a little. I came upon him with another girl.' Past loyalty made Ros withhold Glenis's name, because Hannah wouldn't think much of a girl who took advantage of her roommate's absence to make up to her fiancé.

‘Does it still hurt?'

‘No. I've since realized that I didn't care enough for Jarvis.'

‘In other words, you've had a lucky escape? I'm glad about that. I'm fond of you, Rosalynd, and so I've been worried about you. Guilty, too, I suppose, because you met Jarvis here.'

‘Yes, I did. Fancy you remembering that.'

‘It's kind of you not to blame us for that disastrous introduction. Apparently you don't?'

‘Of course not.'