The Pleasures of Winter (39 page)

The paper slipped from Abbie’s hand as she sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Her heart thumped like a drum at a Fourth of July parade. Hollywood might be finished with him, but Jack hadn’t given up.

‘Pity it’s sold out,’ Barbara said.

‘Sold out?’

‘Yes, that piece is from last Saturday. Tonight is the last performance.’

‘But it can’t be sold out.’

Barbara’s expression was sympathetic. ‘Maybe you should have let him know that you were still in Ireland. He was looking for you.’

Abbie followed her down the stairs and into the study. ‘I’ll ring the box office.’

The girl on the other end of the line laughed at her. There was no hope of a ticket, even for a reporter for the
New York Independent
. Abbie replaced the receiver in the cradle. There had to be someone she could call. She couldn’t leave Ireland without saying goodbye. She picked up the receiver again and punched in a number. ‘It’s Abbie Marshall. I need to speak to the ambassador.’

The return journey to Dublin was uneventful. There were no boxes of tissues this time, just a sadder, wiser woman. Martin deposited her at the hotel for her last day in Ireland. She would get a gift for Kevin and Kit’s wedding. After that she would watch Jack one last time and slip away.

Abbie tugged the suitcase open and tossed its contents on to the comforter as she searched for the parcel of tissue paper. The green silk dress had been cleaned, Barbara’s parting gift. She opened the Jack box, took out the feather and put it in her purse. He had used a feather to inscribe her breast with an ‘M’ the first time they made love. His true self. Michael. It was silly, she knew, but it was like an amulet that would protect her. Abbie dialled reception. ‘I want someone to do my hair and make-up and I need a taxi for 7.30pm.’

‘Ten minutes, Mr Winter.’

Jack pulled on the jacket of his grey suit and looked at his unshaven face in the mirror. ‘Hi, Frank.’

It was like this every evening, pulling on the clothes and getting inside the head of Frank Hardy. When Jonathan had suggested that he take on the role he had been stunned and flattered. This had been one of the best weeks he’d had in a very long time. Five nights on stage, in his own
city, playing the role of an Irishman in exile. Five nights of rave reviews. His father in tears after the show one night; he had embraced him and without either of them saying anything, the poison drained out of their relationship. The only thing that was missing was Abbie.

Her aunt had told him she had gone home, but no matter how much he begged Kit, all she would say was that Abbie was tucked away somewhere remote, writing a novel. She hadn’t tried to contact him. He had messed up again. Every time he got close to expressing his feelings, to telling her that he loved her, how much she meant to him, how much he needed her in his life, he lost the words.

He always did something to hurt her, but in the end, the person he hurt most of all was himself. He had wanted her since the first time he saw her in Honduras. Now he loved her, craved her like a drug.

Abbie had seen through the Hollywood façade he had tried to maintain so carefully. She had cut through his arrogance and bullshit with her quick wit and intelligence. She aroused the Dom in him more than any woman he had ever known. He wanted her back. Would get her back, he told himself, and then would do whatever it took to keep her.

‘Five minutes.’ The knock came again. Jack dropped his head in his hands. It was time to become Frank.

He didn’t remember the performance. He never did; he was always too deeply buried in his character. But the final line of the play, about renouncing chance, always brought him back to himself. He had to renounce the old Jack if he wanted to move on. The one who was afraid to admit what he truly was. The Jack who lived a double life, half
Hollywood superstar, half sexual Dominant, and who was no longer sure who he was. The Jack who had sabotaged every single one of his relationships because they all had involved hiding some aspect of himself. He was done with hiding. He was one man – good and bad, actor and Dom, son and, maybe one day, father.

The applause came again. Taking the hands of his two colleagues, Jack stepped into the spotlight. The warmth, the adulation and the glory were real and tangible when you were face to face with the audience. The crowd rose to their feet and roared his name. The others dropped his hands and he stepped to the front of the stage. ‘I’d like to dedicate this performance –’

The crowd fell silent. His voice faltered. Jack cleared his throat and started again. ‘I’d like to dedicate this performance to Abbie Marshall. The woman I love, the woman who saved me. Wherever she is tonight.’

The curtain closed for the final time and Jack made his way to the dressing room. Sweat had glued the shirt to his back. He was wiped out.

‘That was amazing.’ Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder on the way back to the dressing room. ‘You know, we could do a tour with this. A month in London and then maybe a short run on Broadway. Of course, the salary wouldn’t be anything like what you’d earn from starring in a Hollywood blockbuster. Equity rates only, I’m afraid.’

Jack grinned. Zeke Bryan would have a fit. He spent more than that on manicures in a month. He held out his hand. ‘Sounds great. Where do I sign?’

Back in his dressing room he dropped his jacket on the back of a chair and opened the buttons of his sweat-stained
shirt. He sat down at his dressing table and poured himself a cup of tea from the waiting pot. If Kevin could see him now, he would laugh himself sick. No booze, no starlets, no wild sex in the dressing room. Just a nice pot of tea.

A knock came on the dressing-room door and he frowned. One rule he had imposed was no visitors for at least thirty minutes. It took him that long to get Frank out of his head. ‘Who is it?’ His voice was sharper than he had intended.

The grey-haired wardrobe mistress popped her head around the door. ‘Someone to see you. I wouldn’t normally let anyone back here, but she says her name is Abbie Marshall.’

His hair was slicked back, his white shirt open to the waist and his laser-blue eyes were accentuated by the dark stage make-up that he hadn’t yet wiped off. Jack looked as sensual and decadent as a libertine. She had forgotten how handsome he was in the flesh. So beautiful. So intoxicating. Abbie fingered her beaded purse to give her hands something to do. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have come.

‘Hello, Jack.’

She felt a small thrill that the hand holding the teacup shook slightly as he replaced it on the saucer. Jack stood up and inclined his head. ‘Abbie.’

‘You were wonderful.’ The words gushed out before she could stop them.
Great, now you sound like a teenage fan. Why can’t you talk to him, tell him how you feel?

He flashed a smile that was pure Jack. ‘Thanks. It was Jonathan’s idea for me to play Frank. He’s talking about a tour, starting with London.’

‘That sounds great.’ A tour. He couldn’t go on tour, she’d only just found him again. Abbie’s smile froze on her face as she thought of all that adulation he’d get, to say nothing of all the willing females.

‘So, how is the writing going?’

‘It’s OK, but I’m going back to New York tomorrow. Josh wants me to cover another South American story.’

‘South America, huh?’ Jack shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and he stood bare-chested before her.

‘South America.’ She was distracted, trying not to stare at his abs. She had come full circle – back to staring at his abs like that first morning in the jungle.
Oh, control yourself, Abbie. You’ve seen him without clothes before
. Her eyes darted away from his torso and she glanced in the mirror, but was still conscious of his heated stare.

‘Maybe we should talk about this.’ Jack advanced steadily while she retreated, until her back touched the cool surface of the wooden door.

‘T-t-talk about what?’ she stammered.

Jack lowered his head. His breath fanned her cheek. He pressed his mouth against her neck and held it there, not kissing, not biting, just waiting.

The beaded purse thudded to the floor, its contents scattering. Abbie turned her head and was rewarded with a sharp nip of his teeth. She let out a gasp. ‘Don’t.’

His tongue swirled around the bite mark. ‘Don’t what?’

Jack traced a path along her shoulder until he reached the thin strap of her dress. Mesmerized, Abbie could do
nothing but watch as he pushed it away then did the same with the other strap. The fine silk fluttered to the floor, leaving her standing in a strapless bra, heels, stockings and panties.

Jack unclipped the bra, then pressing his mouth against one nipple, he sucked hard on the tender peak. Abbie yelped at the sensual assault.

‘Now, where were we?’ he murmured against her neck. The vibration of his voice sent a jolt of pleasure through her. ‘Oh yes.’ Another nip, this one more painful than the last. ‘South America. There’s just one little problem with that.’

Another caress. This time his hands slid along her waist, cupped her hips and drew her against the hard length of him. ‘I don’t believe that you asked for my permission to go.’

Abbie couldn’t think straight. She could never think straight when Jack touched her. Jack wanted her. He didn’t want her to go away.

Her mind was in tumult.

No, it had been a mistake to come here tonight. She had to go back to New York. She had a job waiting for her. She should be back in her hotel room, tucked up in bed. Not standing half-naked in a theatre dressing room.

‘That’s the kind of dangerous behaviour that could get you into a lot of trouble.’

‘It could?’ The high, breathy tone didn’t sound like her voice.

‘Oh yes, and there will be consequences.’

Jack wanted to punish her. A hot thrill shot through her, like fire in her blood. It was wrong and decadent, but no one else could make her feel like this.

‘Step out of the dress and place your hands on the clothes rail.’

Ignoring the pile of silk on the floor, Abbie crossed the room and placed both hands on the chrome bar. She heard a rustle as Jack tugged the leather belt free of his trousers and doubled it over.

He slapped it against his palm with a loud crack. Abbie closed her thighs. The ache between her legs was getting worse. She wanted him so badly. She wanted the punishment to be over so that Jack would touch her. She heard a soft click as the key turned in the lock, then his warm hand cupped her breast.

His bare chest caressed her back, the dampness of his skin reminding her of other times he had taken her. Dominated her. She tensed, waiting for the first blow. Instead, all she felt was the light touch of a feather against her bare skin, trailing down her back like a whispered breath. ‘Oh,’ she gasped.

‘Don’t turn round. Keep your eyes closed, until I say.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The first sharp crack of the belt landed on her ass, followed by three more strokes in quick succession. It didn’t hurt, she told herself. Not as much as the months spent without him.

The next one hurt and the one after that. Abbie tensed, waiting for another blow to land. Instead she felt the brush of a feather. Her skin flamed as he continued. Light flicks of the belt, followed by touches of the feather, until she was dizzy. Her soft cries filled the dressing room.

Jack threaded his hand through her hair, holding her in
place while he took her mouth in a searing kiss that left her dazed and breathless.

‘Had enough yet?’

‘No, you bastard. I can take whatever you give me, and more.’

His amused expression turned serious. ‘You really shouldn’t have said that.’

The leather belt landed on the dressing table. Abbie heard the scrape of a chair against the floor. She turned slowly, heat pooling between her thighs. Jack sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the dressing room. He patted his thigh. ‘Get over my knee.’

She took her sweet time closing the distance between them, watching as his eyes ate up her body, enjoying the thrill of knowing that Jack wanted her, only her. One step away from him, she stopped, knowing that her disobedience would arouse him further.

‘Ms Marshall, you are in so much trouble already, don’t make this any harder on yourself.’

She lowered herself across his lap, savouring the rough feel of his woollen trousers across her breasts. The chair was too high to let her put her hands on the floor, so she gripped his ankle for support. Jack traced a circle on her tender skin before he raised his hand and smacked her.

Her body jerked. She had forgotten what it felt like. He struck her again, four times in quick succession.

‘Ow!’ His hand was hard.

Jack laughed. ‘Missed me?’

‘Not a bit,’ she said.

His hand flashed down against her thighs and she squirmed. The hot stinging strokes woke dormant nerve
endings, sending sharp darts of pleasure through her core. ‘Oh god,’ she cried out. She covered her mouth with her hand, afraid that someone would hear her.

The next strokes landed in a random pattern, moving from cheek to thigh and back again. She writhed. She had forgotten the sharp sting of pain, followed by the slow soothing circles of his palm against her heated flesh.

‘That’s for not returning my calls.’

Smack.

‘That’s for making me crazy with worry about you.’

Another smack.

‘And that’s for not filing your lingerie reports for months. You’ve earned this, Abbie.’

She felt his fingers at the seam of her panties and he pulled them roughly down. The sharp blows lessened in ferocity, becoming slower and more sensual. She gave herself up to it as he continued, each blow now focused on the area where her ass met her legs, sending jolts of pleasure up her stinging thighs. Her breath came in uncontrolled gasps, smothered by her hand.

She writhed again, straining on her tiptoes, trying to ensure that he struck the same sweet spot. ‘Ah!’

Jack took it for the invitation that it was. His hand flashed light and fast, sending a flood of sensation through her. Abbie bit down on her hand, crying out as it became too much to bear. Pleasure shot through her, arcing out through her fingers and toes, and she crashed into nothingness.