Summer's Awakening (49 page)

'I'm glad you like it, but I'm afraid it isn't for sale,' he told her.

'You mean it's exclusive to Miss Roberts?'

Again there was an infinitesimal pause before he replied, 'Yes, it is.'

'I see. Lucky Miss Roberts.'

The woman in red gave her an appraising glance in which Summer read a supposition she didn't like.

However, at that point they were joined by some other people and it was some time before she had an opportunity to say quietly to him, 'Raoul, what possessed you to tell her this necklace was for me?'

'We can't talk about it now. Tomorrow—' He broke off as once again they were interrupted.

With so many people wanting to speak to him, or be introduced to her, it was impossible to have any private conversation. Nor could she resume her
t
ê
te-
à
-t
ê
te
with Heinrich Brandt because on her way back to him she was intercepted by a couple who wanted to tell her they had recently stayed in a house where her father had painted some murals.

Her interest in this information helped to calm her vexation over Raoul's misleading statement to the woman in red. She could understand his reluctance to have his cherished design snapped up by someone with so little taste that she couldn't see the necklace was as unsuitable for her as her girlish hairdo and revealing red dress. But surely he could have found some other excuse not to sell it to her? It was plain what inference she had drawn from his reply. And if she were a gossip, as women of that sort usually were, she would share her conclusion with others.

Summer began her supper in conversation with Mr and Mrs Mettinger who told her that since Mr Mettinger's retirement they had moved to Bermuda, but frequently flew to New York to attend the theatre and opera.

Although elderly, they were a pleasant couple with wide-ranging interests and she would have been happy to continue talking to them. But when, having eaten the poached salmon which they had chosen from the cold table, they returned to the buffet for the second course, she was drawn into conversation with another, younger couple, the Grigsons.

After they had been talking to her for a while, some other people joined in. Having started the evening feeling an outsider whom the wives of the other directors weren't eager to befriend, she found herself being almost lionised. It was pleasant to have so many people wanting to meet her and, if they hadn't heard of him, to ask her about her father. She found it easier to talk about him than about herself because, having had no formal training, there was not very much she could tell them.

She was being questioned by a woman who seemed to be at the party on her own when suddenly James appeared beside them.

By this time Summer had stopped keeping an eye open for his arrival. She had virtually forgotten he was coming. As her companion was speaking at that moment, she had to wait for her to finish what she was saying before she could greet him. And before the pause came he had bent on her a steely glance which silenced the words she had intended to utter.

'Good evening, Mr Gardiner.' It was the other woman who spoke to him first. 'I didn't know your interest in art embraced modern jewellery.' She turned to Summer. 'Mr Gardiner is one of the leaders of the computer revolution.'

Before Summer could explain that she knew him, James said, 'I'm also the owner of some murals by Miss Roberts' father.'

'Oh, really? I have another party to attend, so I'll leave you to discuss them. Goodnight, Miss Roberts. I'll look forward to talking to you again at the launch party for your designs.'

When she had left them, James said, 'Do you know who she is?'

'No: should I? Is she famous?'

'She's a columnist. Whatever you told her will be dished up in tomorrow's column for the delectation of her readers.'

'I didn't tell her anything very much. James... is there something the matter?'

'Yes,' he said curtly. 'There is.'

Her blood froze for a moment. 'Not Emily...?'

'It has nothing to do with Emily. Where's your wrap? Go and get it.'

She did as he told her. The maid on duty in the bedroom had no difficulty in finding her black cloak—Summer was the only woman at the party who did not have a fur.

When, carrying it over her arm, she rejoined James in the suite's spacious lobby, she said, 'I can't go without speaking to Raoul.'

'I've already had a word with him.' Grasping her firmly by the elbow, he hustled her out of the suite and into the elevator.

'What did you tell him?' she asked, as he took her cloak from her and placed it round her shoulders.

'That you had a migraine.'

'But I never have migraines. Why are you looking like thunder? What's happened? Where are we going?'

'Back to the apartment. We'll talk there,' he told her repressively.

A few moments later the elevator reached the lobby and as soon as the doors slid apart he renewed his grip on her arm and hurried her across the foyer.

Usually, being tall, she wore low-ish heels in which, at least for a short distance, she could keep up with his long stride. Tonight, in black glacé kid evening shoes with closed toes but only the finest of straps attaching the high heels to her feet, she had difficulty in keeping pace with him.

'Would you slow down, please,' she protested.

He cast a swift, glowering glance at her steeply arched insteps and slender strap-encircled ankles, and reluctantly he shortened his stride.

It was the kind of hotel where, except during the hour before curtains rose in Broadway theatres, there was always a cab-driver waiting for the doorman's signal.

Feeling that she had been bundled rather than helped into the back of the cab, Summer wished they were in a London taxi where the passengers were separated from the driver by a glass partition. In Manhattan taxis there was not much leg-room and no privacy, so she was obliged to sit in silence, her feelings a mixture of anger and apprehension, all the way back to the apartment.

By the time they had taken the elevator up to their floor and James had unlocked the outer door, she was keyed up to a pitch at which her fingers shook slightly as, entering the living room ahead of him, she fumbled to undo her cloak clasp.

'Would you mind telling me what this is all about?' she demanded. 'If there's nothing the matter with Emily, and the apartment hasn't been ransacked, why did I have to be rushed back here?'

'Because, whatever you're planning to do with your future, right now you're still on my payroll and I expect you to act with appropriate discretion,' was his harsh reply. 'I hadn't been at the party ten minutes before I heard two women discussing you in terms which you wouldn't have liked. Or am I wrong in assuming you don't wish to be regarded as Santerre's new mistress?'

Without giving her a chance to answer, he went on, 'A not unreasonable conclusion on their part considering that you're wearing at least a hundred thousand dollars'-worth of diamonds, which they seemed to have grounds for thinking he has given you as a present.'

'They have no grounds at all for thinking that. It's malicious tittle-tattle. I'm surprised you didn't say so,' she retorted.

He said angrily, 'I have no authority to repudiate their conjectures. If Santerre has undermined your common-sense to the extent of persuading you to wear that necklace, how should I know what else he's persuaded you into?'

'He hasn't persuaded me into anything. He's not that kind of a man. If you'd arrived earlier, you'd have heard him introduce me as a new designer for
Santerre et Cie.
Why shouldn't I model a necklace for them?'

'Because you are neither a model nor a member of Santerre's family. Had you been engaged to him, it would have been a different matter. But I don't see any diamonds on your finger. Only in your ears and round your neck. Take them off and I'll put them in my safe!'

The curt command and the contemptuous look which accompanied it brought a rush of hot blood to her cheeks. He succeeded in making her feel as if the diamonds really had been given to her for the reason surmised by the woman in red. Her fingers made clumsy by vexation, she began to remove the stones from her ears.

'Apart from other considerations, I should have thought your own taste would have dissuaded you from wearing that thing,' he said coldly. 'It doesn't suit you. If he had you in mind when he designed it, he doesn't know you very well.'

'What makes you think you do?' she flashed back, her head bent and her arms raised as she struggled to undo the necklace's intricate fastening.

'Perhaps I don't. I gave you credit for more nous than you've shown this evening.'

She continued her futile efforts to release the catch until, finally, she was forced to say, 'I can't get it off. Would you help me, please?'

As he moved towards her, she turned her back. But now she was facing a mirror which reflected them both; a tall, scowling, tight-lipped man, his swarthy colouring accentuated by the snowy whiteness of his dress shirt, and a flushed and mutinous girl in a low-cut dress which revealed her indignant rapid breathing.

It seemed to take him forever to get the damned thing undone, and she was acutely conscious of the brush of his knuckles against her back while his fingers dealt with the difficult clasp.

He said, 'There's certainly no danger of it coming undone accidentally.'

And then, having succeeded in undoing it, he let one end go and the combined weight of the diamonds pulled it forward across her shoulder. It slid, glittering, over her collarbone and the soft swell of her breast to disappear in the valley partly revealed by her
d
é
colletage.

'Thank you,' she said, in a clipped tone, putting up her hand to catch it before he let go the other end.

He didn't do that, however, because with a suddenness which made her catch her breath, he turned her to face him and jerked the end of the necklace out of her cleavage, tossing it on to an armchair with a casual indifference to its delicacy or its value.

'Perhaps it's time to discover who does know you best. Judging by that thing, Santerre sees you as an ice-maiden. I think he's wrong. Let's find out.'

He jerked her into his arms and swooped on her protesting lips like a hawk on its prey.

It was as traumatic a kiss as his first, in the swimming pool in Florida. Although neither of them was naked, and she was almost three years older and had been embraced by other men as well as by him, she felt the same shock and alarm as she had long ago in the pool at
Baile del Sol.
Because this time
he
wasn't being either gentle or persuasive. This time
he
was angry, and the kiss was prolonged and punitive.

Even though she knew from experience that it wouldn't make him let her go, as she had in the pool, she resisted. With her arms clamped between them, she couldn't use her hands as weapons so she drew back her right foot and kicked him, hard, on the ankle.

He gave a muffled grunt of pain. An instant later, still with his mouth covering hers, she was swung off her feet and carried to one of the sofas.

In the twisting and squirming which followed, all she succeeded in doing was snapping one of her shoulder straps. And throughout her futile struggles he kept possession of her mouth, kissing her with a kind of relentless sensuality which was frighteningly effective. With every movement of his lips she could feel her own senses responding and conspiring to betray her will.

At last, with a moan of despair at her body's treachery, she gave in and lay still in his arms, no longer fighting against him but against her own rising desire to go beyond passive submission and return his kisses.

As soon as he felt her surrender his hold on her eased, his hands ceasing to restrain and beginning to caress. His fingertips smoothed her throat, searching for and finding the pulse which betrayed the excited beating of her heart.

'I don't like your hair this way either,'
he
murmured, his lips to her cheek.

She felt him pull out the pins and release the soft swathes of her hair while his warm lips roved over her eyelids before returning to her mouth.

His kisses were like a drug which destroyed or distorted every normal control. All she knew was that she was a woman in the arms of a man whose touch was a magic she had no power to resist.

Soon she was caressing him; feeling the thick springy hair under her wandering hands, the long strong neck leading down to the powerful shoulders.

Without taking his mouth from hers, he got rid of his dinner jacket. Then there was only the fine white lawn of his dress shirt between her hands and the warmth of his muscular body. Without knowing what she was doing until she had done it, she found she had pulled his tie undone and opened the top two buttons, making room for her hand to slip inside and feel the heat of his skin and the heavy thudding of his heart.

At the same time he had discovered the zipper at the back of her dress. Moments later she was naked to the waist and his hands were gently exploring her satiny breasts, making her shiver with pleasure.

When his fingertips touched their soft peaks, piercing shafts of ecstatic sensation shot through her body from her breasts to between her legs and down the insides of her thighs. He seemed to know all the ways to induce deeper shudders of bliss; by nibbling the lobes of her ears and playfully biting her neck, his mouth working lower and lower so that she knew, very soon, his warm lips would replace his fingers, and then—oh, God! Could she stand it?