Wild and Wanton (9 page)

As they entered the restaurant, the maître d' rushed forward to greet Nick Farraday. He was too well-trained to speculate openly about the new woman by his side, but he could not resist one covert glance at Lindsay as he said, ‘
Monsieur
Farraday. It is always a pleasure to see you. Your usual table, sir?'

‘Hello, Gilbert. Yes, please. This is Miss Cooper.'

‘
Bonjour,
mademoiselle. I am charmed to meet you,' the maître d' said, making a slight bow in Lindsay's direction before leading them proudly toward a table that commanded the best view of the city scenes outside.

Lindsay reveled in being made to feel special. The enchantment of it put a sparkle in her eyes and made her almost lose her animosity toward the man sitting opposite her.

She felt strange . . . hypnotized. Heads had turned as they walked in, and being by Nick Farraday's side had given her an indescribable feeling. Intrigued curiosity and tingles of envy had reached her from all sides. Not so surprising, really. Any woman lucky enough to be out with a man as dynamic-looking as Nick Farraday had to expect that. But it wasn't just his looks; his wealth and social status would have made him attractive in some eyes even if
he
hadn't been handsome. But then again, neither was it just his wealth and social status. No matter what kind of background he'd come from, it was obvious that no goal would have been too high for him to achieve; one word that simply didn't describe him was average. His personality alone set him high above his fellow man. Lindsay knew all about that personality; it swept her along as though she were as weightless as a feather. But even that wasn't the major thing on her mind at the moment. No, the most surprising thing of all was the way she seemed to have lost her levelheadedness. She was enjoying all this immensely!

Having found his tongue again, Nick Farraday set about demonstrating that he knew how to be a charming, solicitous, and most attentive host. Lindsay tasted French cuisine at its best, partly because of the expert way he guided her through the long and complicated menu. She felt completely pandered to, not to mention a little lightheaded because of the amount of wine she had consumed. She had kept forgetting to put her hand over her glass when Nick reached for the bottle; it was much too delicious for her to refuse any. She soon felt very relaxed and comfortable.

‘Mr. Farraday,' she began, a note of query in her voice.

‘Nick,' he said.

‘Nick,'
she repeated after him, not objecting to the companionable sound of it, which matched her lightening mood. ‘Say your destiny hadn't been set out for you, say you hadn't had a business handed down to you on a silver tray. What would you have chosen to do?'

‘Oh . . . er . . . let me see.' Was it her imagination, or was he holding back laughter? ‘First I would have lied about my age and ducked school to run away to sea. That would have given me a taste for globe-trotting and also taught me the error of my ways. The school of life is all very praiseworthy if it's experienced in conjunction with a sound education. Then it would have been back to the book-learning, followed by a spell of journalism school to set me on the way to my goal as a war correspondent. That's what I would have done, given the chance. What about you?'

‘Me?'

‘Was secretarial work always your goal?'

‘No. When I was a little girl I dreamed of being a dancer. My parents took me to see
Swan Lake
and I was utterly captivated by it. I didn't just watch Odette; I danced every step with her. And when Odile bewitched Siegfried, I was inconsolable. I sobbed as though my heart would break. And when Siegfried and Odette were united again, it was like being reborn. Everybody clapped. The applause
almost
lifted the roof off. And I resolved that not only would I play Odette on stage, I would be the greatest ballerina of all time.'

‘What happened? Weren't you any good at ballet school?'

‘Nothing happened. I never went to ballet school. I was too young to know you had to work for something you wanted. I thought if you wished hard enough it just happened.'

‘And didn't you have an understanding parent to put you right?'

‘No, for the simple reason that I never told anyone of my dream. It was my very own secret, too special to disclose even to my mother. It's laughable now. If I'd just said something to her she would have enrolled me in a dancing class. She was always supportive, and I know she would have encouraged me. Not that the outcome would have been any different; I don't suppose I would have been any good. It's a funny thing, but I've kept this to myself all these years. You're the first person I've ever told.'

‘I'm honored. Where do you hail from, Lindsay? It's obvious that you're not a southerner. At least, I don't think you are.'

‘You're right, of course. I was born in Yorkshire, and that's where I lived until I followed . . .' She almost slipped up and said, followed my brother Phil to London, stopping herself just in time to amend it to, ‘the example of lots of restless small-town girls and
came
to seek my fortune in the big city.'

‘What small town?'

‘Haworth.'

‘Ah—Brontë country.'

‘Yes. Not that you'd need confirmation of that.'

‘No,' he agreed. ‘Although, surprisingly, I've never been there.'

‘Haven't you?' she said in amazement. ‘Shame on you! People come from all over the world to see Haworth.'

‘I'm duly repentant. One day I must rectify my error. Tell me about your parents. Do they still live in Haworth?'

‘Yes. They've never felt any wanderlust, and I reckon they'll live out their days there. What can I say about them?' she puzzled. ‘They're just a nice, ordinary couple. My father is most comfortable when he's wearing a deplorable old tweed jacket that Mother has been threatening to give to a jumble sale for as long as I can remember. He's a car mechanic. He used to be chief maintenance man at one of the mills until it closed down and he had to look for something else
.
He was always mad about cars—tinkering with them was his favorite hobby—so it was a natural choice. I think he could have been anything he wanted to be, but he never aimed very high. He's more talented than he is ambitious. And Mother is very dear and gentle. She has dark brown hair that is naturally curly, and beautiful brown
eyes.
She makes marvelous pastry, and absolutely dotes on my father. He's equally besotted with her, so it's a nice arrangement.'

‘It sounds so.' Did she detect just the faintest trace of envy in his voice? ‘Do you miss them?'

‘Of course.'

‘And Haworth . . . do you miss that, too?'

‘There's so much to make up for it here, but I often have little bouts with nostalgia.'

‘Describe Haworth to me.'

‘Well, it's built on the edge of a bleak open moorland. Dun-gray, thundercloud-colored moors rising and falling endlessly to the horizon, here and there the odd cottage. Haworth itself is an ordinary graystone-and-slate village with a steep cobbled main street. It's not at all spectacular, but there's something magic in the fact that you can purchase a copy of Emily Brontë's
Wuthering Heights
at the same shop where her brother Branwell used to buy his opium. But of course it's the Brontë parsonage which is the draw. It's often said that it's dark and gloomy, but I never see it that way. The house is soft with light. It's a moving experience to walk along the same stone-flagged passage they did. Looking at the collection of relics is like taking a peep into their lives. Charlotte's bonnet and shawl, her boots and dress. Emily's mug. Aunt Branwell's teapot. And the children's tiny handwriting in the miniature books, their first
efforts
at storytelling. But it's the intangible things that always get to me—the feeling that those gifted, isolated children whose minds ran so free, weaving such fantasies, are still there. Sometimes, as the wind creaks the old wood, it's as if you hear their somber laughter. You feel that if you reach out and touch Aunt Branwell's teapot it will still be warm from the last brew. At least, that's how it strikes me. Does that sound silly to you?'

‘Not from a romantic such as yourself.'

A gentle sigh rose from her throat. ‘It's true that Haworth, immortalized as it has been by the Brontës, has a strange charm for the imagination. Especially the graveyard on a drizzly November day at twilight. But enough of that.'

‘Why? I'm enjoying it.'

‘I'm not sure that you aren't laughing at me.'

‘That would be most ungallant of me after being so delightfully entertained.'

‘You
are
laughing at me.'

‘No; truly I'm not. I just feel relaxed and comfortable. Even with the ghosts. Seems a pity to move, but there's still a lot of ground to cover. So, if you're ready . . . ?'

The evening passed in an euphoric whirl as Nick Farraday shuttled her from one place to another. The small hours found him leading her onto the small, intimate dance floor of a select club. She had managed to avoid dancing
with
him until now, but she'd finally run out of excuses—and determination. She threw herself into the lively beat, moving freely to rid herself of the tension that was beginning to creep back as she tried to make sense of her feelings.

She could have liked Nick Farraday very much—if she hadn't disliked him so intensely. What had he said at their first meeting, that hate on someone else's behalf was the worst kind? And then he'd said something about all the circumstances rarely being disclosed. She suddenly felt out of step. With so many people thinking good of Nick Farraday, could he be as bad as she thought?

The beat had changed. The tempo was now slow, dreamy. Lindsay knew that she ought to walk off the floor. In the subdued lighting she was still aware of Nick's eyes on her face, the puzzled quirk of his brow, the sulky grimness of his mouth. He was used to people liking him unconditionally, or at least fawning over him and putting up a pretense of favorable interest. Yet she wouldn't have said that Bob Sheldon was the sort to cozy up to someone simply because he put business his way. What had Nick Farraday done to make Bob Sheldon willing to lay down his life for him?

Nick Farraday's arm curved round her as they danced, but propriety ended with the way he brought her close to his strong body. Panic curled in her stomach.

She raised furious eyes to his. ‘You might at
least
let me breathe,' she whispered.

‘For a girl who had a secret dream of being a ballerina, you're not doing so well. You're as stiff as a poker. Relax . . . if you dare.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘You might find that you like being held close.'

Might? She did! Since meeting Nick Farraday she had discovered a lot of unpalatable truths. The latest one, that dislike didn't necessarily prohibit sexual response, was particularly unacceptable. The infuriating man was right. She was afraid to let go. It was like going off a precipice: once you were over the edge, you couldn't prevent a free fall.

The gentle, romantic love song she swayed to in Nick Farraday's arms didn't seem to be coming from the group on the corner dais, but straight from her own heart. The hand that held hers was crushed between their two bodies. His clenched knuckles practically scalded her through the thin material of her dress. His other hand was low on her back, the long spreading fingers wrapping her slender frame in fierce sensuality. She was acutely conscious of the expensive cologne he wore; it complemented rather than masked his own intrinsic male smell, a combination that pleased her senses. Each breath she drew increased her awareness of his masculinity. A scraping sweetness rasped through her mind, sweeping her into a depth of feeling that jolted
her
breath and blocked out coherent thought.

As a shiver of delight thrilled through her body, pure womanly intuition took over. Her face found a natural testing place in the curve of his neck. The hoarse, reactive murmur that came from his throat brought a smile to her mouth. It would have been dreadfully humiliating if she'd had no power to amuse him in view of what his proximity was doing to
her.
She had never before wanted that sort of power over a man. Some vague instinct was telling her now that it wasn't something to rejoice over, that it would be far wiser to view this power with alarm. But she didn't want to listen to its warning to refrain from adding fuel to a fire she couldn't handle.

The dreamy love song ended, and the strains of another began. Lindsay's melting body waited to be drawn close to his again.

‘I think it's time I took you home.'

She nodded in mute agreement, thinking glumly that she ought to have been the one to call an end to their evening. Not until she was settled in his car did she wonder if she had been right in thinking he had decided to end a steamy situation. What if he thought it would be more seemly to swap a public venue for one that would afford them more privacy?

‘It always surprises me that even at this hour there are so many people about,' she said, filling the car with mundane chatter in an attempt to block out the turmoil of her
thoughts.
She was sitting very erect, and as far away from him as possible, pretending an interest in the tall buildings disappearing into the misty-dark night sky that was just beginning to yield to a pinky-gray dawn. ‘I didn't realize it was so late,' she said, slurring the words slightly on a yawn. It was late, and she was genuinely tired, but she knew that it was mainly an emotional exhaustion, and that it would take very little effort for this man to bring her vibrantly to life again.

Her own weakness where he was concerned infuriated her. As he brought the car to a stop she said sharply, ‘Thank you for a lovely meal and a most pleasant time. Because of the lateness of the hour, I'm sure you'll understand that I don't want you to come up with me. So I'll say goodnight.'