That Tender Feeling (8 page)

‘Grow up, Rusty. Fool me for thinking that you already had,' he jeered. ‘You're only a woman on the outside. Inside you're still a cringing child. What's more, you haven't the spunk you had when you were a child. The child you were wouldn't have run away from any situation, no matter how fraught. She would have faced up to it. Even if she was frightened, she'd have died rather than show it.'

‘I hope you're not suggesting that I'm frightened of you.'

‘Actually, I wasn't.'

‘That's as well. I don't trust you, but I'm not frightened of you.'

‘Lies make poor weapons, especially when one lies to oneself. I think it's fairly obvious, without my having to labor the point, that I've never needed to take a woman against her will. And I'm not about to start now. It's not me you don't trust, Rusty. You don't trust yourself with me, and there is the subtle difference. How is it when a woman feels unsure of herself, she lashes out at some poor guy? All women are the same.'

Writhing at the unjustness of that contemptuous accusation, she flung at him, ‘All men aren't the same, I'm thankful to say. I've never met one in your mold before. You're bitter and cynical and full of your own importance.'

His eyes flicked over her with scorn. ‘All, this because of a few meaningless kisses? I don't believe it!' His manner veered between aggression and ridicule as he challenged coldly: ‘Or weren't those kisses meaningless on your part? Was that soft mouth beneath mine searching for more than sensuous pleasure?'

‘What pleasure? If you got any you were lucky. I derived none.'

For a second, their glances clashed in silent antagonism.

Then a soft, derisive ‘No-o?' spilled slowly from his lips.

A thought occurred to her. ‘I can understand why I feel as I do. I've every right to object to being pawed, but for the life of me, I can't understand your attitude.' She expected him to take her up on accusing him of pawing her, but his frown grooved deeper, and the notion came to her that he had a bigger issue to ponder on, although it beat her what it could be. ‘What are you getting uptight about?' she demanded to know.

But was uptight the right word? Wasn't there something on the defensive about his manner? What was he backing away from?

He was glaring at her as if she were the guilty party and not the other way round. She didn't know how it had come about; it certainly wasn't of her skillful maneuvering, because she had been swept along by the tide of events, but somehow she had managed to get under his skin.

Even as she struggled to understand his attitude, she tried not to be intimidated by it. Or by the virile strength that radiated from his body and had such an enervating effect on her, putting her into a state totally beyond the scope of her experience.

Experience! That was a laugh. The intensity and depth of his kisses had brought it forcibly home to her that in comparison to the girls he was used to dealing with, she could award herself a nil rating. She'd only been dancing along the fringes of lovemaking with Jarvis. No wonder he'd strayed. And thank goodness he had. She might have gone through life thinking that milk-and-water kisses were all there was to it. She had a lot to be grateful to Jarvis for. In not being satisfied with what she had to give, he had done her a favor, even though he was responsible for her present predicament. Because the fire she had stepped into was now licking above her knees.

Throughout all this, he had kept hold of her wrists; suddenly, he levered her forward. Her body was just short of touching his. His breath scorched her cheek; his nearness seared her senses. She tried to dismiss it as mere sexual excitation, knowing there was nothing mere about it. It was explosive. So close, too close, not close enough. She ought to freeze against him, but she was a yielding fire, a humiliation to herself and her fine intentions to stay aloof. She fought to regain control of herself, knowing that his eyes were playing over her face, drinking in the startling clarity of the emotions expressed there. She had never been much good at covering up, and the feelings stirring within her were too new for her to have found the key to regulate them at this stage. She needed time.

Her mouth was dry with tension. She pressed her lips together to moisten them. Her emotions weren't obedient to her will but subservient to the strange power he seemed to have over her. She wasn't her own mistress, but she'd be damned if she would be his!

‘Let go of me!'

‘Your eyes aren't saying that.'

‘Can I help it if I have stupid eyes? Look, Cliff, be fair. This isn't in the deal.'

‘Deal?'

‘Commitment we've made, if you want to parry words.'

‘You're off beam, Rusty. A physical need was expressed, but no commitment was made.'

‘What in heaven's name are you talking about? You're the one who's off beam. I was referring to the commitment we've made to share your cottage until mine's been made habitable. It isn't going to work unless you step smartly back into line. I'll do the cooking—I don't mind filling your stomach—but I'm not going to fill your bed.'

‘Are you always so plain spoken?' His face mirrored strong disapproval. ‘Some things aren't put into words.'

So he didn't like plain speaking. She'd managed to get under his skin again, but this time she knew the cause and mentally filed what could be a useful piece of information.

‘All I can say is, they should be,' she retorted airily, before snapping: ‘Stop being so damned superior. I can spout the social niceties along with the rest when I want to. As for the other—'

‘What other?'

‘The self-opinionated implication that every woman is out to trap you into matrimony.'

‘How do you know that I haven't been trapped? How do you know that I'm not married? At my age, the majority of men are.'

‘I don't know.' Her eyes swung sharply up to his. ‘Are you?'

‘No. And not about to be.'

‘Are we getting down to the nitty-gritty? The whole point of this demonstration. You're not averse to accepting anything that might be an offer, but it won't end with a short walk down the aisle. It'll be, “So long, been nice knowing you.” A hail and a farewell affair, with no strings—or should that be rings—attached. Oh, I'm sorry,' she said with saccharine sweetness, ‘I forgot your aversion to plain speaking. I must remember that some things aren't put into words.'

‘On this occasion, I've no quibble with your plain speaking. It's better that you know how things stand.'

She didn't like the way he'd put the onus on her. She looked pointedly down at the hands still binding her wrists. ‘You also know how things stand, Cliff.'

‘Precisely.'

This round was hers, but she felt no sense of victory as he dropped her wrists and walked away.

He was cool and shrewd and too damned confident that eventually he'd get what he wanted. She wasn't at all sure that it wasn't what she wanted, too. But why had he tried to rush her? Why, instead of acting as if there weren't a moment to lose, hadn't he taken it in nice and easy courtship stages? Then she laughed at her own reasoning. ‘Courtship' was the last word applicable. It went with that other word beginning with C—commitment. Either marriage or that other arrangement that is becoming exceedingly popular with a certain set these days, the commitment of a deep and meaningful relationship.

At heart, Ros still clung to orange-blossom dreams. Rice and rings and saving the top tier of the wedding cake for the first special event. Yet she took the realistic view that sometimes things prevented couples from marrying. She knew of heartbreaking circumstances when it was right for a couple to live together as man and wife without going through the sanctity of the ceremony. If the affections were deep enough, she thought that heaven, in its mercy, would overlook the odd earthly lapse. But she couldn't condone two people coming together, with no thoughts of making it a permanency, to appease an of-the-moment, selfish physical urge. Even though the sexual excitation he had aroused in her was as rife as ever. She went weak just thinking of his strong arms around her, his lips leading her into bliss, the tantalizing nearness of his body acting like an apéritif to her hormones. Yet she couldn't see herself consenting to being everything to him. Not unless there was some compelling reason.

* * *

After dealing with the breakfast dishes, Ros went shopping. Cliff was going to seek out the agent and sort him out to get things moving as regarded the repairs required to make Hawthorn Cottage habitable again.

Ros knew that she wouldn't be able to get everything she needed in Gillybeck, and she didn't even try. She drove farther afield to a town with the kind of shops that she knew would cater to her specialized requirements. It wasn't just a case of proving herself to Cliff; she needed certain ingredients for experimental recipes that she intended to try out for the book she was writing.

She piled her purchases into the trunk of her car and decided she was in no desperate hurry to return to the cottage. Cliff could scratch up his own lunch. She wasn't going to feel domestic toward him. She'd undertaken those duties, but she didn't have to carry them to extremes. She'd only agreed to take on the cooking because it suited her purpose to do so.

She enjoyed a late, leisurely lunch in a popular restaurant. Usually, when she dined out, her working brain took an interest in the food, but she ate without really tasting anything and afterward couldn't remember what she'd eaten. A man sitting at a table nearby tried to pick her up; she wasn't even aware of it. Her mind was preoccupied with Cliff. She couldn't stop thinking about how ill he had been during the night. He still hadn't looked one hundred percent fit that morning, but considering how bad he'd been, he'd made a fantastic recovery. He'd said it was malaria. She'd always dismissed that as something of little consequence, an attack of shivers that she'd supposed would be mildly uncomfortable. She hadn't realized what a violent effect it could have on a person or how frightening it was to observe. He had gone through all the stages of gray and green; and even that morning, although his fantastic suntan had disguised it to a certain extent, his color still hadn't been back to normal. He wouldn't lie to her about the nature of his illness, surely? What would be the point? It would be malaria if that's what he said it was. So what was nagging at her?

After lunch, she decided to look round the shops again, but this time not the ones that sold only food. There was a festive look about the windows, a reminder that Christmas was slightly less than two weeks away. In the hustle, she'd forgotten. How could anyone forget the approach of Christmas, for goodness' sake?

To make up for her forgetting, she bought some Christmassy things. Crackers and decorations, a bright shining silver star and tree baubles and the special sweetmeats that were a must at that time of the year. She bought herself a Christmas dress in soft red wool. Redheads can't normally wear red, but careful choice of the shade of red and the cooling quality of her gray eyes meant that she could. She would have liked to buy a present for Cliff, but nothing seemed appropriate, so eventually she gave up the search. Perhaps she would find something suitable somewhere else, possibly even in Gillybeck, nearer the date.

The extra shopping and dawdling meant that she was much later in getting back to Holly Cottage than she'd intended. The turnoff road she took was ink dark, but because Cliff hadn't drawn the curtains, the square of light from the window was a bright yellow welcoming beacon that she raced to eagerly despite the potholed road.

The door opened as she jumped out of the car. The doorways of country cottages are noted for their smallness, and Cliff's tall frame filled the limited space. The most ridiculous urge came over her to run to him, to be swept off her feet and enfolded in his arms. His unwelcoming growl firmly repressed it.

‘You've been a long time,' he said. ‘I thought you'd decided not to come back.'

Is that what he'd wanted? Had he hoped that she would spend the day thinking things out and subsequently reach the conclusion that the arrangement of sharing a cottage was unsuitable, after all, and not bother to return?

‘I didn't have much option. All my things are here, aren't they?' she said, jerking a disdainful chin at him before going to the trunk.

As Cliff carried in the mammoth supply of groceries, she wished she hadn't bought so lavishly. It looked as though she were preparing for a siege or contemplating staying for a long, long time. As for the Christmas stuff, it was as if someone else had bought those. A bright, happy spirit in no way related to the dejected girl who scooped up the various boxes and parcels with casual indifference.

CHAPTER FIVE

The evening meal fell short of her capabilities. Time was short, but that was not the cause, because she'd allowed for that and prepared something quick and uncomplicated. Kebabs of lamb with spiced orange sauce and saffron rice. The lamb was inclined to be tough, and the rice was not as fluffy as she would have liked. The fact that this dish, like the breakfast, wouldn't have tested the capabilities of a schoolgirl overmuch made it all the more exasperating. What now for her brave challenge of the morning to make him eat his words?

It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd been scornful. He was impossibly nice; nice for him, anyway. There was only a faintly cynical gleam in his eye as he said: ‘Never mind, Rusty. Some girls are born cooks; others are born to be decorative.'

It was the kind of backhanded compliment she could have done without. In fact, she didn't realize there was any compliment there, even though she had taken the trouble to change out of her jeans into a dress and brushed her hair out, until she sifted the words about in her mind later.

Then she glared at him and said, ‘I am an excellent cook.'